


They Say Your Head Can be a Prison

by Flames_and_Jade



Series: Only One For Me - Peterick OTP Prompts Repository [8]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad News, Best Friends, Children, Declining Health, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Eventual Major Character Death, Feelings, Feels, Getting Older, Growing Old Together, Heartbreak, I'm so sorry, Love Letters, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Medical Conditions, Please Don't Hate Me, So much angst, True Love, Unconditional Love, blame tumblr, saying goodbye, some smut, still in love, you seriously might cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: What do you do when the future you never even doubted is suddenly gone? What do you do when the doctor gets sick? How do you live your life knowing there's a sword hanging by a horsehair over your head? How do you say goodbye? This is that story.ORA story that got way out of hand, way longer than I thought, and became way more special to me then I imagined. Pete and Patrick + Alzheimer's + Unconditional Love = a roller coaster of heartbreak, feels, angst, and an eventual happy/sad ending.





	1. The Only Thing Worse Than Not Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Sad, depressing, not a bit like Christmas...I'm sorry!!!! (Depending on how evil I feel, I might write more...we'll see.) I LOVE YOU ALL!!!! <3

“I’m sorry.” 

 

It was like one of those scenes from an action movie, like Lord of the Rings or something like that. Where everything seemed to drop away and go out of focus except for the person in the middle—they sharpened and became brighter, somehow. 

 

“No, that’s not, he—he just turned 50! How can he—“  Pete’s waterfall of denial was stopped by the doctor holding up a hand. 

 

“It’s called early-onset Alzheimer's. It’s not very common, but it is a definite phenomenon. There are treatments that, while they won’t cure it, can help—“

 

“Can we go, please?” Patrick’s voice was soft, so low that if Pete hadn’t spent the last thirty years of his life hearing it, he might have missed it. He looked over to see Patrick white-faced and staring at the ground. Terrified blue eyes flicked up to his, and Pete felt like his heart was literally breaking in two and tumbling down his ribcage to land in the soles of his feet. 

 

“Why don’t you both take some time to process this, and come back tomorrow. We can discuss treatment options then.” The doctor was standing, and gave them a sympathetic smile that Pete just wanted to punch off his face, knock in those perfect teeth and scream at him _there’s nothing to smile at you fucking asswipe!!_ But then Patrick was pulling him out the door, head down and shoulders hunched all the way to the car. 

 

“Patrick, it’s—“ He started to say but Patrick curled up, head resting on the dashboard and his hands clutched to his chest as he shook his head. 

 

“Please. Just…home. Now.” 

 

Nodding, Pete threw the car into reverse and gunned it, breaking the speed limit and not caring as he barreled down the freeway. His head was spinning, trying to deny it, even though he’s the one who had made Patrick go to the doctor. The way Patrick was forgetting appointments even when he left himself notes, not just being a few minutes late. His mood swings that seemed to get worse after he couldn’t find where he had left something, the way he would dance along to a song that hadn’t been on the top 40 in a year and act like it was the freshest, newest tune he’d ever heard. The way Patrick would stare at him blankly when Pete asked him something and he couldn’t come up with a cool tidbit of useless trivia no matter how hard he tried. The way he would practice learning a new song for hours, only to go back the next day and cry as he clutched the music sheet when he couldn’t remember how to play the notes. 

 

It all tumbled through him as he drove through the neighborhood and pulled into the driveway. As soon as the car stopped, Patrick was tumbling out, stumbling to the door and struggling to get his key in the lock. Pete covered his shaking hands with his own and together they unlocked the door. Patrick fell through the door and sank to the ground in the foyer, back against the wall and hands covering his face as he started to sob. Pete kicked the door closed and fell to his knees, pulling his husband to his chest. Patrick’s hands came up to clutch the fabric of Pete’s t-shirt, fisting the cloth tightly as he shuddered through open-mouthed sobs punctuated with low cries of _no, please,_ and _not true._ It felt like ice had worked its way into his head and replaced his brain, because Pete couldn’t think of a single thing to say, a single syllable to make Patrick feel better, to make this anything less than the worst news they’d ever gotten. 

 

So Pete just pulled him closer and let his own tears fall. 

 

 

~//~

 

They had cried in the entryway for almost thirty minutes, until Patrick was nothing less than a quivering, exhausted, gasping mess of snot and tears and rasping breath. Pete was in only a little better shape, but he pulled them to their feet and into the bedroom. Patrick didn’t say anything as he sat him down, kneeling to pull his shoes off and then gently pulled his arms from his jacket. It all went onto a pile on the floor as Pete maneuvered Patrick’s silently compliant form under the covers. Smoothing the hair back from his face, Pete pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered he’d be right back. Patrick didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge Pete at all, and his heart clenched but he pushed it away and went to make tea. 

 

That perked Patrick up, and Pete helped him sit and stacked pillows behind his back. It was terrifying, his brain screamed at him in a distant way, to see Patrick so pliant, so obedient…like he had no willpower left, only mindless docility. 

 

_Mindless._

 

The word bounced around in his head and he tried to push it away, to hold back the tears that pushed against his throat. Patrick cupped the mug, like he could pull the warmth into him and will away the news as he took careful sips. Pete wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close as he drank the soothing liquid and rubbed absent patterns on Patrick’s shoulder until the cup was empty.

 

He took it from Patrick’s slightly-unsteady hands and set it on the nightstand, then pulled his husband close and nestling under the covers. Patrick scooted closer, wrapping his arms and legs around Pete in a heartbreaking reversal to Pete’s octopus-like method of cuddling. Whispering wordless noises of calm and peace, Pete kept pulled him in, until they were a tangled mess of _patrickandpete._

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

 

He shook his head, and Pete could feel searing tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt where Patrick’s face was pressed tightly to his chest. There was none of the sobbing and shaking from earlier…it was just sorrow, pure and abject, leaking out of Patrick’s eyes as the future they had imagined shattered into a million pieces and slipped through their fingers. 

 

A thousand things whirled through his mind like a tornado of fear and worry and heartbreak. They could find some sort of experimental treatment, there was always some crazy drug that China or Belize or someone was making. They would make a time machine and go back and live their lives together again and again and again. They would find a cure, for fuck’s sake they were rockstars, they had more money then they’d ever need and they could pour it all into research as long as Patrick got the first dose…

 

But none of it seemed to want to come out. None of it seemed like the right thing to say as Pete held his heartbroken husband and the awful realization struck him that he should savor this…because he _won’t have it forever._

 

So he just holds Patrick until they both fall asleep.

 

~//~

 

The sun streaming through the open blinds nudged Pete awake with the gentleness of a hammer hitting his face, so he burrowed back into the pillow, his foot nestled warmly under Patrick’s calf. His first thought was _mmmm sleeping with Patrick is perfect,_ and a tiny smile tugged at his lips as he felt himself being tugged back under.

 

 _Patrick_.

 

His body stiffened as yesterday barreled over him like a freight train, remembering the tears and the murmured denials and the doctor’s pitying smile, and his eyes snapped open…to see Patrick’s clear blue gaze focused on him. 

 

A soft smile floated on Patrick’s lips and Pete felt his heart squeeze with the love that had sustained him and made his life _perfect_ ever since they’d met. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

The word was soft, and Pete wondered how long Patrick had been awake, how long he’d been staring at him. 

 

“Hey. Watching me like a creeper?” 

 

Patrick nodded, the smile growing a bit. “I like looking at you.” 

 

For a long moment, Pete wanted to just burrow into Patrick’s chest and pretend that this was a normal Saturday morning, that they hadn’t gotten the worst news imaginable, that everything was happy and perfect. But apparently Patrick wasn’t going to let him do that. 

 

“I’m sorry I lost it yesterday.” Pete shook his head, wanting to tell him it was alright, that they would figure out what to do, that it wasn’t as bad as what the doctor had said…but Patrick put his fingers gently over his mouth. “No, I mean, I know. It’s not the worst thing I could have done after…news like that. But, we’re going to have to figure this out.” 

 

Nodding and pushing past the lump in his throat, Pete wrapped his hand around the fingers on his lips, kissing them before he pulled Patrick’s hand to his heart. “We will, babe, it’s going to be alright. We’ll find something, I’ll call Bob, you remember he—“ 

 

“Pete.” Patrick’s voice was soft but firm. Like he had put the pieces together in his head, untangled the riddle. He pulled the hand from Pete’s grasp and ran it slowly over his cheek, up into his hair—a soothing motion that he had done since pretty much forever. He’d done it when Pete’s hair was straightened within an inch of its life and hung over his eyes in an artistic sweep. He’d done it when Pete had cut it short and died it pink, he’d done it when Pete found the first strands of grey just after his forty-fifth birthday, and he had kissed him and told him that he’d love him even when he was a crotchety old man. He’d done it when Pete had started dying his hair black, refusing to look _ancient_.  

 

“I…I’ve been awake a while, googling and such. It’s not…it’s not like it’s just going to be over tomorrow. We still have time and you’re right. Maybe there’s some sort of treatment we can find or something.” His hands came up and cupped Pete’s face, bringing his eyes up to meet his—ocean blue and whiskey brown. “But this isn’t going to end well no matter what, and I won’t be able to make it any easier on you. I—I  need you to think about if you can handle it. There’s going to be a point where I won’t know who you are, I won’t remember how much I love you.” His voice trembled and unshed tears glittered in his eyes. “It’s going to hurt you and…I don’t want you to break, too.” He took a deep breath. “It might—it might be best if I went and stayed with my parents at…at the end.” 

 

“ _No_.” Pete’s body finally remembered how to move, his mind suddenly remembered how to pull itself from the stupor of shock and pain and fear. He scrambled up and pushed Patrick on his back, clambering on top of him and putting a hand on either side of his head so he was looking straight down at the most beautiful face in the world. In an instant his mind flipped through all the different incarnations of that face—Patrick with his round baby face at sixteen, blue eyes sparkling under a bad haircut and a knit cap. Patrick with those ridiculous sideburns and the long fringed hair sticking out from his perpetually-worn trucker hat and a wry smirk. Patrick with the bleach blonde mop and the hard-won confidence dancing behind his eyes and his smiles. Patrick with his fedora and the thick glasses that got progressively thicker as the years went on. Patrick’s eyes shining when they held their daughter for the first time, and the laughter in them when she grew up to be just as feisty and bull-headed as he was. Patrick as the laugh lines got deeper, and he could no longer keep the slight paunch off and had joked that he finally looked like a “dad.” Patrick as the grey started to liberally sprinkle his reddish-blonde mop, and he didn’t care, saying he had earned every strand by all the ridiculous boys Charlotte had brought home before she found Brian and got married. They all flew through his mind in an instant, and his heart skipped in his chest as sorrow squeezed along with the love as he looked down at his best friend and the love of his life. 

 

“Not a chance in hell.” He lowered his face down so that their noses were just inches apart, so that he could see the ring of gold around Patrick’s pupils, the mottled sea-blues and greens that floated in them. “Patrick, you’ve always been there for me. You got me through the worst shit my fucked-up brain could throw at me, you _kept me alive_ and whole and sane and…” He swallowed past the tears that were running down his cheeks. “And if you think for a minute that you haven’t made me strong enough to do that for you, to take care of you _in sickness and in health, ‘till death do us part_ , then you have another think coming.” 

 

Patrick’s eyes were wide and heartbreakingly blue, tears spilling down onto the pale skin Pete loved so much as he took in a deep breath. “But, but what if I hurt you, or say something because I don’t remember how much I love you, what if you—“

 

Leaning down, Pete pressed his mouth to Patrick’s, sealing their mouths in a kiss they had shared for the last thirty years of their relationship. The tears mingled and met on their cheeks as his tongue slid across Patrick’s parted lips and they shared a breath full of heartbreak and dedication. He pulled away, one hand cupping Patrick’s cheek. 

 

“Then we’ll handle it. But no matter what the doctors say, no matter what happens, I _know_ you love me. It’s here—“ he placed his other hand over Patrick’s heart. “—and Alzheimer's or anything else can’t touch that.” He snuffled and cursed his heart for breaking and making him cry. “But I’m going to love you forever, whether you remember it or not.” 

 

The love in Patrick’s eyes was fathomless and unblinking as he gave Pete a shaky smile and nodded as he pulled him close. Pete tumbled down on top of him, pulling him close and swearing to himself that he’d never let him go. “I love you.” 

 

Patrick’s reply was steady and sure. Strong. 

 

“I know.”


	2. If I Woke Up Next to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the diagnosis...and Patrick decided what he wants to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So because I felt so bad (not really!) for the heartbreak I put you all through, I wrote some happy-ish-ness for this next chapter. Savor it now, friends, because it's there's gonna be more tears ahead! But after all the research I did, I wanted to give them a bit of happy times. Thanks for all the comments and love!

Rolling over, Pete crinkled his nose at the unfamiliar sheets, but then felt the very familiar form of his husband next to him and smiled. The pre-dawn light was coming in faintly through the lace curtains, painting Patrick in muted blue tones and made the whole room look like it was a breath waiting to be released, like the day was poised on the edge of night. 

 

Eyes closed in sleep, Patrick looked younger than his fifty years. He had grey in his sleep-tousled hair, crows feet at the corners of his eyes from smiling, and he was thicker here and there. But Pete loved everything—loved the way age had made him look, because they were years they had spent together. 

 

Rolling onto his back, he worked their hands together, smiling as Patrick laced their fingers in his sleep—an unconscious gesture from a lifetime of habit. He looked at the ceiling, glad to be there, glad to be with Patrick. Glad to have the time to let his brain drift in the early blue light and sort through the last week.

 

_The day following the diagnosis had been a flurry of time spent waiting and wondering in the doctor’s office as tests were ordered and interpreted, treatments discussed, medications prescribed and assessments were made. They walked out with bottles of Donepezil and Memantine, as well as the biggest vitamin E pills they had ever seen, and a host of good wishes from the staff. Patrick had insisted they go get those little day/night weekly pill holders so that they would remember the doses, and then they had gotten burgers and gone to watch the sunset._

 

_The next day they told Charlotte and her husband, Brian. Pete had been proud of himself for not crying, but had been even more proud of Patrick. His voice had been calm, steady, without even a hint of the earlier fear present. Charlotte had, in typical Stump-Wentz fashion, stared at him with wide eyes and then stalked out, slamming the door behind her like Pete. But, just like Patrick, she had come back in about three minutes; calm, collected, and ready to plan. Brian had held her hand and rubbed her back gently as they listened, and Pete found himself thanking whatever deities were out there that had helped Charlotte find a really good husband._

 

 _That evening they called Patrick’s parents. His mom—eighty and spry as a old horse—took the news calmly. She had said she wished she could give them both a hug (which made Patrick mute the phone and shove it into Pete’s hands while he took deep breaths and tried to compose himself) but when she said all the reassuring “mom” things it somehow still made them feel better_. 

 

_The fourth day, Patrick had been sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and drinking his coffee in the brooding silence of a night-owl. He was staring at the rectangular boxes that held his medications, and then put his coffee cup down sharply._

 

_“Pete, I want to go on a trip. Just us.”_

 

_Turning around from where he was currently engaged trying to spread cream cheese on his bagel, Pete gave his husband a look. “Okay, where?”_

 

_Pursing his lips, Patrick took another bite of his cereal and shook his head. “All the places we said we’d always go…I want to do it. To Ireland and get a Guinness, to Estonia, to Norway and stay in that ice hotel, to the Great Wall, to Australia and go to the symphony hall…wherever. I just want to go with you. I want to make good memories of us."_

 

_Three days later, they were on a plane and landing in Ireland. The sky had been pouring buckets, but Patrick hadn’t seemed to care as they came off the jet bridge. The smile on his face had been luminous, just as it had been when they checked into their tiny bed-and-breakfast to find their room cozy and warm, the light from the fire painting their skin with golden tones._

 

Pete rolled back over and pressed a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, the light from the curtains painting his skin rosy and warm. “Wake up, sleepyhead.” Patrick’s face scrunched up in the agony of _mornings_ as he tumbled towards awareness. In payment for his crimes, Pete peppered kisses all over his face, hands running softly through his hair. Humming low in his throat, a sure sign that he was about to fall back asleep without murdering Pete for trying to wake him, Patrick snuggled closer. 

 

With the motion, Pete realized that _something_ was awake and very interested in their morning proceedings, and he grinned. Well…he did know a surefire way to wake Patrick up, and he certainly wasn’t above playing dirty. 

 

~//~

 

They bought wool sweaters and wore them all over Ireland, driving through rolling green hillsides dotted with sheep and goats. They drank Guinness and visited the Jameson factory, getting much tipsier than they had any business being at their age and not giving a damn. They flew to Italy and went to Venice, Patrick’s eyes lighting up at the beauty of the sunset over the crystalline waters, a beatific look on his face when he tried the squid ink pasta at this place Pete had googled and apparently had 2,451 five-star reviews. 

 

They went to Paris, and walked around the Louvre, for once not having to hurry because of a plane to catch or a show to play. They just meandered, looking at the beauty of the human form and the grace of the human mind in capturing life on a canvas or pulling it from stone. They ate pastries and went to some Michelin-Starred restaurant that served the food on beds of grass or hanging from a chandelier, and Patrick had looked resplendent in a button-up and blazer, eyes wide at the artistry of the food.

 

The next day they had stayed in their hotel, taking a long bubble bath and enjoying the pampered plushness that seemed to characterize everything in their room. They had sex everywhere like it was their honeymoon again—in the bath, the movement of their bodies making the water ebb and flow around them. In the bed, tangled in the sheets with Pete’s hands tied to the headboard while Patrick licked and bit and sucked every inch of his body. Against the sink in the bathroom, eyes locked on each other in the crystal clarity of the mirror, watching as they finished with the other’s names on their lips. On the window seat, their breath clouding the glass with their hands tangled in each other’s hair. The ended up in the bed, laughing and sore and blissed-out, napping in each other’s embrace like they didn’t have a care in the world. 

 

That evening, they had showered with only a little bit of shenanigans and wandering hands, ending up getting falafel from a roadside cart and walking along the river. They got hot chocolate and sat on a bench when night fell, looking out at lights and the city and the water. Patrick had talked, haltingly, about the future. It wasn’t as heartbreaking as they both thought it would be…it was almost like the closeness of the day had permeated them both, given them an extra measure of courage. Somehow, on that bench next to the Seine, they talked about DNRs, and medication, and both of them going to counselors, and Pete finding a support group, and funeral arrangements and what to do with the house.

 

Neither knew how, but somehow it was _okay_ …it seemed like that future was far away. While they both new it had be talked about and planned for, it was so far removed from the lights reflecting off the muddy waters, it was bearable. So Patrick sat with Pete’s arm around his shoulders and they laughed about playing some ridiculous Bowie song at his funeral and Pete told him he would try to find TMNT adult diapers for him. It hurt, but it was clean, it was unfettered with the fears of the ugly reality that waited for them, but they did it together and that was what mattered.

 

The next day they flew to Norway and stayed in the Ice hotel. It had been something Pete had always wanted to do, and Patrick had snuggled warm and soft next to him under their mounds of blankets. They were lucky enough to be there for a spectacular Northern Lights display, and Patrick’s eyes had glowed as they watched the colors dance across the sky. Pete had looked over, his lover bundled in coats and scarves, a hat pulled down her his head—Patrick looked like a marshmallow of down and wool, but his cheeks and the tip of his nose had been pink—Pete just couldn’t resist kissing them. Patrick had smiled, pulling him close so their temples touching, and together they watched the arctic display. Once the lights vanished, he had been too excited to sleep—yammering about _electromagnetic fields_ and _polar vortexes_ and Pete’s heart felt like it would burst with how _normal_ he sounded. Patrick had pulled him down and buried them in the mountain of blankets and furs on the bed in their icy palace, they had kissed like they were teenagers again. They made love bundled up in blankets, faces flushed with warmth and passion in the frosty air, and it felt like _them_ , it felt like heaven. 

 

They flew to China, and Patrick pored over guidebooks and language books, trying to stuff as much Mandarin in his brain as he could. In the end, all he could remember was M _ay I use the restroom?_ and _Do you speak english?_ But that had been enough, along with the google translate app, to get them into an amazingly-authentic restaurant run by an iron-willed matriarch, who would not rest until both of them felt like dying of overeating. The next day, they climbed up to the Great Wall, and Patrick had leaned against Pete as they surveyed the marvel of architecture and human purpose. 

 

“It’s pretty incredible to think people made this so long ago…and it’s still here.” He had murmured, eyes following the curves of the Wall into the distant mists. 

 

“I think there’s always something left. Everyone makes a mark that can never be taken away.” Pete had murmured into his hair, and Patrick turned to give him a soft smile. They both knew they weren’t just talking about the Great Wall…but it was comforting, nevertheless. 

 

They went to Australia, and they swam with sharks—Patrick pale-faced and resolute, Pete giddy with excitement—and as they sat on the deck of the boat as it churned through the waves taking them back to shore, Patrick had taken Pete’s hand whispered, “That was insane…but awesome.” Pete had grinned and pulled him close, and he could see Patrick playing back all the times the sharks had swam right up to the bars of the cage, the raw power and contained strength in those bodies. It had been a thing to behold. 

 

They went to the Sydney Symphony hall, and Patrick had darted around like a kid on crack, looking at everything and examining all the walls and panels and the way sound reflected. They listened to some classical thing, Pete had no idea what it was but knew that Patrick had known the whole thing—he had noticed him playing on his thigh in time with the organ. But the real surprise had been when Pete led him down into the orchestral pit for the surprise—to see everything up close. The conductor had guided them around, talking about the acoustic engineering of the hall and Patrick had soaked it up like a tiny, bouncing sponge. A tech had come up and talked with Patrick for nearly two hours about the gear and sound systems and Pete smiled to see Patrick nearly _glowing_ with geeky happiness. 

 

Through it all, Patrick was just _Patrick_. He took his medication, religiously refilling the little square boxes every Saturday night. He almost always had a thermos filled with hot tea, because the drugs made him faintly queasy after he took them, but he took it without complaint. He forgot things, but they were small—where he left his wallet, what day of the week was…but it really didn’t matter. They were on vacation, so long as Pete did a sweep of the room to make sure they didn’t leave anything behind before they left, no harm was done. The carefree quality of their days seemed to soothe the worst of his symptoms, and the constant excitement of seeing new things made his depression burn low like embers under a bank of ashes. 

 

The last stop in their whirlwind was a cabin in the Swiss Alps. It was a decently-sized mountain town, and Pete made Patrick pick out a few books on their way through Bern. They spent the next week cocooned in pine and gleaming copper, sitting by the fire reading and napping. Cooking breakfast in their boxers like the old men they were and laughing when Pete burned the eggs and they had to open the window to let the smoke out and they both were hit in the chest with an icy blast of cold air that left them breathless. They spent evenings cuddled in bed listening to the crackling of the fire and the wind in the trees. They would venture into the town every couple of days to eat a real meal, and then walk an ambling path back, through the woods, enjoying the moonlight and the pine-scented air and the sound of the forest breathing with them. Pete thought that Patrick looked like he belonged in the snow-covered landscape, his skin pale in the dim light and his expression peaceful. _Maybe we could both turn into forest spirits and dance in the trees forever,_ he thought, _spirits can’t get Alzheimer’s right?_

 

Sensing the turn of his thoughts, Patrick pulled him close and rested his head on Pete’s shoulder. They crested a hill, and the valley was laid out in front of them, glowing in the moonlight. The clouds were gone from the sky, leaving a glittering carpet of stars trailing out before them and Patrick sighed with a smile on his lips.

 

“Plant one of those little Japanese pine trees over my grave? I want to be buried in Chicago, but…I’d like a pine tree, that way you’ll think about us being here, happy and together.” He gave Pete a smile that held a teasing edge right next to the sadness. “Plus if it’s one of those bonsai ones, it’ll be short like me forever.” 

 

Pete laughed at that, unable to help himself. He pulled Patrick close and kissed him, their lips cold as they met, but warming as their mouths opened and their breath mingled. They murmured _I love you_ at the same time, and Pete pulled away, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

 

“Jinx, you owe me a soda?” 

 

Smiling, Patrick shook his head. “Nope, just telling the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I started writing this as a random plot bunny one-shot, and it's turned into...*peeks into draft in WIP folder*...12k words so far? That being said, if anyone has any experiences with Alzheimer's they'd want to share with me, please feel free to message me on tumblr (a-smile-like-that). I have no personal history with this disease, so everything I'm writing is just based off lots of googling. If anything I've written is unrealistic or wrong, I'm sorry and I'd really appreciate anyone letting me know. Hugs friends!!!


	3. What A Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depression is a bitch...Pete always knew that. He knew how it made him feel, he knew what it felt like as it settled over him like a sopping wet blanket and cut him up with burning knives of self-loathing.
> 
> But he never realized how much it hurts when you're watching it happen.

After all these years, he finally got it. He finally understood the lines on Patrick’s face, the heartbreak in his eyes, the fury in the way he would  drop his fists at his sides. The reason he would stalk out with his jaw clenched, breathing deep through his nose when he would try to talk Pete through his self-loathing and hatred, only to run face-first into the iron wall of his depression.

 

Pete understood, and it nearly broke him.

 

It had been something so simple—Patrick couldn’t find his where he had left his sunglasses. They were already late for Joe and Marie’s anniversary party, and Pete had been a bit less then understanding when Patrick had stopped in the doorway, patting his pockets with a confused look on his face. 

 

“Pete, where are my sunglasses?” 

 

“I don’t know babe, but I’ve got my extra pair in the car. You can wear those, okay?” 

 

“No. I need mine.” With that, Patrick vanished back into the house, looking under the couch, in the fridge, under the kitchen sink, behind the tv…Pete stood there, trying to take deep breaths, rationalizing that if they just found the glasses they could leave sooner. 

 

They were nowhere to be found, though…no matter where they looked, no sunglasses appeared. Patrick was rooting under the sink in the bathroom, with Pete trying to convince him to take his sunglasses. 

 

“ _NO, Pete,_ I need _MINE!”_ Patrick jerked under the sink in frustration, causing a huge bottle of soap— _why do we even have that much soap?_ Pete wondered—to tip over, spilling all over the floor and onto Patrick’s pant leg. With a muffled sound that went straight to Pete’s heart like a dagger, Patrick sat back against the wall, staring in shock at the mess. Kneeling down, he reached a tentative hand out to rest on Patrick’s shoulder, only to have him flinch and glare. “Go away.” 

 

“Patrick, honey, it’s not a big deal. Why don’t you just go change your pants and we’ll go?”

 

“No. I messed it up.” Patrick’s voice was wooden and resolute, his eyes trained on the spilled soap that puddled on the ground like a rosemary-scented river. 

 

“Baby, you didn’t mess anything up. It just spilled, it was probably my fault, I bet you I left the lid off or something. It’s okay, I promise.” 

 

“No.” Squeezing his eyes shut, Patrick hunched over his knees and started to rock gently. “Go away. It’s my fault, I couldn’t find my sunglasses and now I broke the soap. It’s all my fault. All my fault. ” 

 

“Sweetheart—“ Pete settled a gentle hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, hoping he would find it soothing, like he did when he was younger and Patrick would calm him down. “I—“

 

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Patrick screamed and scooted away with wide eyes, tears spilling down his cheeks as he scrabbled backwards towards the tub. Once his back hit the porcelain surface, he turned around and clutched at it, starting to sob between his frantic pleas. “Get _out,_ Pete, it’s all my fault, just _go away and leave me alone,_ it’s all my fault, I’m not sweet, I’m _not_ , it’s my _fault_ , I _broke it—”_

 

Running from the bathroom, Pete tumbled down the stairs and back out into the fresh air. Sinking to the ground on the front steps, he sat and took deep breaths. He _knew_ he shouldn’t be angry about this, he had done it himself to Patrick for crying out loud how many times? Back when he was broken, afraid to be on his medication and afraid to be off it. When he tried to hide the heartbreak in his eyes behind eyeliner and long bangs, hoping against hope that someone would see past the mask and _pull him out._ He saw it all now, he saw glimpses of himself in Patrick’s eyes…and he _hated it_. He hated how much it hurt, he hated how angry it made him and he hated how guilty he felt for being angry. 

 

With trembling hands he pulled his phone out and texted Andy. 

 

_< dnt think we’re gonna make it, I’m sry. He’s hvn a meltdown>_

 

Andy’s response was nearly immediate.

 

< _I’ll handle it, don’t worry. We’ll miss you guys, take care of both of you. >_

 

Pete thought back to when they had told Joe and Andy. They had both been heartbroken, but Andy had simply stood and pulled Patrick into a huge hug. Joe had done the same, tears on his cheeks but a smile on his lips. He had murmured _hey we got through unmedicated Pete, Andy’s protein powder roulette and you guys being idiots. We’ll all get through this together too._ Patrick had sniffled and nodded, gratefulness plain on his face. 

 

With more than a little frustration, Pete looked up at the sky as his thoughts returned to the present. It was a beautiful blue, with a few cotton-ball clouds floating through the sky. There was a wall of storm clouds off to the east, making the weather report’s evening rain seem more likely. He thought back to what Patrick had done for him, tried to remember how he would talk him out and bring him out of the dark into the light. 

 

When he really thought about it…when he had fallen down deep into his own mind, Patrick hadn’t tried to pull him out. He would see that Pete was somewhere that only he could find the way back from, and he would just wait. He would be there when the skies cleared and the poisonous fog drifted away, and Pete felt like he could take a breath for the first time. Rubbing his hand over his face, he took a deep breath and told himself he could do this. Patrick had done this for him for _years_ …all he had to do was be there, and love him. 

 

And loving Patrick…well, that’s something he knew how to do.

 

Closing the front door behind him, he went back upstairs. Gently pushing the bathroom door open, he peeked his head inside. Patrick was on his knees, wiping soap off the floor with a washcloth and rinsing it out in the sink. He was snuffling a bit, and he looked up at Pete with reddened nose and watery eyes when the door creaked on its hinges. 

 

“Let me help you…” Pete kept his voice soft, and he grabbed another washcloth from the counter. Kneeling down, he helped Patrick mop up the rest of the mess in silence. Once the floor was soap-free, Patrick stood and washed his hands in the sink, dropping the washcloths into the hamper behind the door. His smile was bashful and a bit ashamed, but sadness still filled his eyes as he murmured a quiet _thank you._

 

Hesitantly, Pete pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Anytime.” He took Patrick’s hand and gently pulled him out of the bathroom. “You want some pizza?” 

 

Nodding, Patrick followed him out and motioned at his pants. “I’ll change and…come down.” Pete nodded and, with a final look at him, headed downstairs, hoping that Patrick really _would_ come out. He called to order the pizza, and then plopped down on the couch, turning on the TV. 

 

A few minutes later, now clad in his batman pajamas, Patrick eased onto the couch next to him looking small and withdrawn. 

 

Scooting closer, Pete pressed a kiss to his forehead and rubbed soft patterns across his back. “You want to watch Food Network?” That was a surefire way to cheer him up, and they both knew it.

 

“Yes please.” 

 

They watched _Cupcake Wars_ and were halfway through an episode of _Chopped_ with when Patrick moved. Pete had been sitting next to him, letting him have the space he seemed to want. He rubbed his fingers gently across his shoulder, not asking, not pushing…just being there. But as Ted pulled the cloche up to chop the contestants from three to two, Patrick scooted closer, leaning his head against Pete’s shoulder, snuggling his back against his side. Pete wrapped an arm around his waist, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. Patrick took one of Pete’s hands in his own, and began painting soft patterns along Pete’s fingers in soft motions. Its was tender, it was _them_ and Pete felt the tension start to drain out of his husband, and he pressed a smile to his scalp. 

 

“You’re the best.” Patrick’s voice was quiet, tentative. It filled the last space between them…the space left behind after the fit in the bathroom. It was a simple apology that Pete would never ask for, and that Patrick didn’t know how to give, but he tried anyways.

 

It meant more to Pete then all the awards and records and gold stars in the world. It was a treasure, it was something so precious and only he would understand it's value because he knew what it cost. He knew the fear and the weight of the voices screaming behind your eyelids that  _it was all worthless, you're worthless, just give up_ and he knew the effort it took to tamp that down and push on anyways. He knew the strength it took to break down your own walls and let someone inside, to push aside the pain like a curtain to extend a hand in questioning hope. He knew how hard it was to come clawing back to the light...and so he treasured those three words like the gift they were. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes from watching someone close to me struggle with depression. I obviously extrapolated it out a bit more, but it's a topic close to my heart. The ending, where Patrick apologizes without actually saying I'm sorry...I've been on the receiving end of those apologies (like Pete) and I know they're treasures that I take out and remember when the days are dark.


	4. You Look So Good in Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift in the storm clouds is a gift nonetheless.

A couple months after the diagnosis, Charlotte had asked them to come over for breakfast. Pete had managed to actually get Patrick out of bed and in the car with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand by nine in the morning—a minor miracle, all things considered. 

 

They were sitting at the kitchen table, Charlotte setting out a plate of fresh cinnamon rolls, and Pete thanked the culinary gods that she had inherited Patrick’s abilities in the kitchen, not his. They all dug in with abandon, licking frosting from their fingers and laughing about having to buy two types of orange juice—Charlotte and Pete mercilessly teased Brian for being a heathen who liked _pulp_ in his OJ. Patrick, barely awake but getting closer, merely smiled at the talk and drank his coffee as he ate. By his second cup, he was talking with Brian about the band camp that he was running as part of the school’s summer program and Pete was shoveling a third cinnamon roll in his mouth with gusto. 

 

Charlotte reached back to the counter and grabbed two boxes, wrapped in white paper. She handed one to each of them and took Brian’s hand. 

 

“Okay, what’s this? If this is revenge for that glitter prank I pulled on you at work, Charlotte, I’m totally—“ Pete started, but she shook her head with a laugh. 

 

“No, it’s not, I promise. Nothing’s going to explode out of there.” 

 

Pete gave her a knowing look, and then looked over at Patrick, who was holding his box contemplatively. “Well, should we open them?”

 

She nodded. “Together.” 

 

Both did as they were told, Pete slowing down from ripping the paper as Patrick proceeded carefully like he always had, trying to keep everything intact. Finally they were down to a plain white box, and with a nod from their daughter, they both pulled the lids off.

 

“Charlotte—“ Patrick’s voice was a whisper, and he looked up with her with tears in his eyes. “Are you serious?” 

 

Pete was still confused, because he was holding a box with the world’s tiniest Converse sneakers inside. They were black with skulls on them, while Patrick’s box contained a tiny pair of oxfords. 

 

“Wait, what’s going on?” Pete was confused—why was Patrick crying and why did they have different shoes? “I mean, these are rad and all but they’re tiny as— _oh my god.”_ He jumped to his feet, eyes riveted on his daughter. “You’re having a baby!?” 

 

She looked over at Brian and grinned up at him, nodding. Patrick almost knocked Pete over where he was doing an interpretive celebration dance holding the shoes aloft like a prize as he ran to his daughter, gathering her up in his arms and rocking her like a child. Pete ran over and hugged them both, pulling Brian in for good measure. They laughed like idiots and then dissolved into a mess of questions and exclamations and Pete good-naturedly threatening Brian for knocking up his daughter. 

 

“But Charlotte, these are boy shoes? Like, how far along are you, doesn’t it take longer to know?” Pete couldn’t remember how long it took to know what the gender was, but as he ran an eye over his daughter he couldn’t _see_ anything that screamed _I’m pregnant!!_

 

Brian rolled his eyes. “She says she knows…and I know when to shut up.” 

 

Laughter bubbled from Pete’s throat at the look on his daughter’s face. He knew that look from years of marriage to Patrick—half smug, half dare—like she was so confident she was fine with you not understanding, because she did and that was all that matters. He held up his hands in surrender. “If she says it’s a boy, it’s a boy!” 

 

Patrick’s eyes were shining like gems in the sunshine as he knelt by Charlotte’s chair as he pulled her back to sit. He pressed a hand over her belly and started to sing softly as he rubbed his thumb in gentle motions, and Pete was swept back to Patrick holding a tiny pink bundle in the rocking chair, singing _hush little baby, don't say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…_

 

Charlotte had tears running down her cheeks and she sang with Patrick, her hand coming up to cover his. He looked up into her eyes, and Pete could see the pride and love practically glowing from his husband. When they finished singing, Patrick stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek. 

 

“You’re going to be the best mother in the world.” 

 

She practically beamed down at him. “Only because I learned from the best.” 

 

~//~

 

With excitement and abandon that surprised them all, Patrick had asked Charlotte if he could help them get the baby’s room ready. Brian was practically out of pocket for the summer at band camp—coming home only on the weekends—and she had said yes with a smile on her lips and in her eyes. The next day found them at Barnes and Noble, poring over baby decorating books like a couple of teenagers. After returning with tea for both of them from the little Starbucks, Patrick had taken Charlotte’s hand gently and said “This is _your_ baby, sweetheart, and I’m just here to help. I got my chance to go nuts when we got you so…don’t feel like you have to pander to me, okay?” 

 

She grinned and nudged him, “I think I can stand up to grandpa-zilla.” They resumed planning—comparing paint schemes, looking at themes and decor. After deciding on three possible contenders, they were off to the hardware store to buy paint samples and then get dinner. Patrick forgot which paints went together with which decorating scheme, but Charlotte reminded him and they were off to paint the baby’s room while eating cupcakes that Pete had brought over. Charlotte put pickles on hers, and Pete teased her about crazy baby cravings and Patrick just laughed.

 

The next morning found them sitting on the floor, drinking coffee and staring at the paint in the early morning light. Patrick told Charlotte stories about her nursery, about making Pete go nuts because he painted three times before settling on the mauve and cream scheme that had lasted until she went through her punk phase in junior high. He told her about the time they found her standing in her crib, talking to her mobile of colorful Mexican candy skulls that Pete had gotten her, and how they had both been shocked silent. He told her about the time Pete had been changing her diaper and she had literally exploded baby diarrhea all over him and part of the wall, and how he had laughed so hard that he had to sit down on the floor as Pete stared wide-eyed at the mess. Ultimately they decided on a steely blue for three of the walls, and decided to attempt to paint wide stripes of alternating grey and white on the other. 

 

A week later, the room had been successfully painted—all the steel blue when they had realized neither of them were good enough to make the stripes look anything near professional, but with a mural of stars and planets on the ceiling by Grandpa Patrick—and it was time to do everything else. Charlotte and Brian had gone and done the “big” shopping on Patrick’s insistence. He said that picking out the crib and the sheets and the changing table had been one of his and Pete’s favorite memories. That weekend while they shopped, he had given Pete a smile that looked happier than he had seen in a long time, and buried himself in their studio.

 

Pete had wheedled his way in to sit in the corner with his work laptop, answering emails and drafting plans as Patrick worked. Peace had suffused the small space, and for the first time in a while they had felt the pall hanging over them since the diagnosis disappear for a bit. Like the clouds broke and the sun was shining on them as Patrick sang and hummed and cooed into the microphone, and Pete pretended to work but was really just listening and enjoying. 

  
At the end of the second day, Patrick had finished five songs—all either lullabies or gentle renditions of some of their favorite songs. There was a soothing, melodic version of “Life on Mars” with the sounds of bubbles popping in the background, there was a peaceful incarnation of Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” and a few of the normal lullabies, like “rockabye baby” and “Brahms lullaby" with an acoustic guitar accompaniment in the background. It was beautiful, and it was so _Patrick_ that it made Pete’s smile feel like it was going to make his mouth just fall off his face. 

 

The next week it was back to everything baby, as Charlotte and Patrick put together the crib, both grumbling at the directions (or rather, lack thereof) and celebrating with cartons of Chinese takeout when it was successfully together with no leftover hardware. They had gone to the bookstore and picked out reams of children’s books, laughing together as they read through ones that Charlotte had loved, or getting excited over new books that had come out since her baby years. Sometimes Patrick would zone out, lost in thought for a while…and Charlotte would just let him go, sitting quietly holding his hand as she looked through baby books until he came out. 

 

Charlotte had wanted Pete and Patrick to come to the first sonogram. Brian had held her hand as they looked at the monitor and saw their child for the first time. It had been too early to know the gender, but Charlotte hadn’t cared…she still maintained it was a boy, and nobody was brave enough to argue with her. Pete had stood behind Patrick, wrapping his arms around his middle and resting his chin on the other’s shoulder. They had both gasped when the baby came on the screen, and the tech had been kind enough to print them out two sets of pictures. Patrick had cradled the small black-and-white images like they were made of gold, and tears had shone in his eyes as he stared at the tiny baby. 

 

When the time came for the next sonogram, Brian had to work, so Pete and Patrick had gone with her. When the tech had exclaimed “Look! It’s a boy!” Charlotte and Patrick exchanged knowing looks as Pete did a whooping dance full of jumps and spins, and she had squeezed Patrick’s hand in celebration. 

 

Charlotte had found a million crafty things to make for the baby’s room on Pinterest, and Patrick became her artistic sidekick. He would wind her million skeins of yarn into balls for her as she tried to knit a baby blanket. He cut out felt shapes to make little stars and clouds that hung under a crescent moon for a mobile that she carefully stitched together. They bought a few canvases and tried stenciling on designs, but ended up settling on painting them complementary colors to the room. Charlotte wrote her favorite nursery rhyme on one in her block-letter handwriting she got from Pete, because both of them had horrible chicken scratch as their normal handwriting. Patrick wrote, in his looping curling script, “I love you” in five different languages. Smiling, Charlotte pressed a soft kiss to her father’s cheek and they set them up to dry. 

 

The nursery came together beautifully—looking even more beautiful than the mockups in the magazines they had pored over together. But the best part was the time they spent together. Charlotte would listen to her father as he told her stories about their exploits on the road, about when she was a baby, about how much he had worried about her being an only child and growing up spoiled and they both laughed at that. She would tell him about the time she broke his favorite mug and hid it at the bottom of her toy box and he laughed because he had always wondered what happened to it. She tired to record every moment in her mind, to remember exactly how his guitar-calloused fingers felt wrapped around her hand, the timbre of his voice as he went down memory lane and told her about her first steps, the sunlight streaming in the window and painting her father’s grey-streaked hair golden. Because every moment was precious. 

 

 

 


	5. I’m a Mascot for What You’ve Become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that Alzheimer's brings is change...change to the roles they have always held, change to the ways things have always been. It made Patrick feel like everything was wrong, everything was changing and he couldn't stop it...and he hated it.

He had _always_ taken care of Pete—that was something that had been a constant in their relationship from as far back as they could remember. Whether it was slipping him his anti-depressants every morning on tour without making it a big deal or just throwing a few of his shirts and jeans in with his own laundry so Pete would have _something_ clean to wear. He was the one who would play fashion advisor (okay, more like fashion encourager) when Pete would have one of his crises over what to wear, and Patrick would sit and watch him try on every permutation of every clothing combination in his closet until he found one that he liked. He would hold Pete through his mind screaming at him that everything was hopeless, the band was going to fail, he was going to fail as a father, that Charlotte would hate him forever after the first time he had to send her to a time out. He would sing to him at night when Pete couldn’t sleep and he would listen to Pete’s endless prattling about whatever he was interested in ( _did you know know that a blue whale’s dick is 50 feet long? What do you think I should do with my hair next? I’m thinking a mohawk? I can’t believe you don’t love The Bachelorette!? That show is AMAZING!)_  

 

Now, though…now Patrick had the arduous task of learning to _let Pete take care of him._

 

After the first few times that he ended up either sweating through his clothes or freezing his ass off, Patrick started asking Pete before they would leave to go somewhere if he was dressed okay. Most days, Pete would nod and press a kiss to his cheek, or joke that the only thing that would make the outfit better was some eyeliner (to which Patrick would roll his eyes—that was never happening again). But now and then Pete would look up and his eyes would flit over Patrick’s body and he just smile and gently make a suggestion. Pete never made a big deal of it, he never did anything but make the gentle jokes they had always made with each other, and it helped somehow. When Patrick came downstairs in a polo and jeans, Pete had smiled and suggested he snazzy it up with some argyle, and he had been right. The wind wasn’t so bad when you had argyle to keep you warm. 

 

Or there were the little notes that Pete would leave around the house on days he had to leave early for work. Patrick would wake up to a text saying _go look in the bathroom, I love you!_ and he would eventually unbury from the covers and get up. Bright pink post-it notes were scattered through the room— _don’t forget to flush!_ by the toilet or _make sure you’re minty fresh for me :)_ by his toothbrush _._ There was one on the closet door that said _it’s a t-shirt and jeans kinda day in the neighborhood_ and one by the coffee maker that said _made you an omelette—its in the fridge, top shelf. Microwave for 1:45._ There was one on the remote that said _power then input > 3 for DVD, input > 5 for netflix_. In addition to all these helpful notes, there were also little ones that just said Pete Things. _You rock my world, Pattycakes_ and _Did you know you’re sexy as hell?_ and _Can’t wait to come home and give you a hug._ They made him smile and feel warm inside…like he wasn’t forgotten. 

 

The guilt had started innocuously enough…he started to feel bad about how much Pete had to take care of him, he felt guilty that Pete needed to do this for him. He was angry at Pete for being so nice about it and even more angry at himself that he even needed it. He felt bad knowing that Pete had to always be keeping an eye on him, that he would get up earlier than he needed to write him the notes. It all came to a head eventually, which meant he had been sulking and depressed for three days solid, so Pete had made an emergency appointment with Patrick’s therapist and deposited him unceremoniously in the office. Patrick had stared at Neal in sullen silence for a while and then lashed out that in a decidedly un-Patrick way _HE wasn’t the one who went to therapy, that was PETE. HE shouldn’t need to be taken care of, HE took care of PETE, that’s HOW IT WORKED. HE wasn’t the one with problems, PETE HAD THE PROBLEMS AND HE FIXED THEM._

 

The therapist had taken his outburst admirably, not even flinching as he sat back down heavily, guilt already overtaking him for yelling. Neal had said _Patrick, that’s good. I’m glad you’re telling me what’s really bothering you_. _Do you think that the reason this is so hard is because it’s making you feel like your relationship is changing? That all the sudden you and Pete aren’t the same anymore, and that scares you?_

 

Patrick had stared at the toes of his shoes—some stupid recycled ones that were made of plastic bags and tofu-byproduct that Andy had gotten but were ridiculously comfortable—and thought about that. He had always taken care of Pete…that was the way it worked. For him to not be able to anymore, for him to have to accept that he might never again…

 

 _It’s scary,_ he had whispered. _I’m…afraid that I’m going to be too much, and I feel bad that he has to do it at all. It’s not how we are. I take care of Pete._

 

Smiling gently, Neal held up three fingers. _Patrick, I have three questions for you. First, do you think Pete is mentally healthy? Is he stable?_ Patrick nodded his head, sure of his answer. Pete had gotten so much better over the years, as he finally found the right combination of meds and being a father had changed something in him. It had made him somehow stop hating himself and had given him that drive to be well nobody could give him. Neal nodded, and asked the second question. _Did you ever resent taking care of Pete? Were you ever mad you had to do that for him?_ Patrick shook his head—what a stupid question. Of course not. Neal gave him that look that meant he was about to say something that Patrick was going to hate but couldn’t argue with. _Could you have walked away from Pete when he needed you? Did you ever think of leaving him when things got bad in his head?_  

 

Patrick could feel his brows rise as the ridiculous question. _Of course not. I mean, I got frustrated but I would never…it’s what I’m supposed to do. I need to take care of him, to help him be okay._

 

 _Don’t you think Pete feels the same about you? If you believe he’s healthy and stable, and loves you like you say…he feels the same way about taking care of you as you felt about taking care of him._ Neal’s words filtered in and Patrick had sat back, feeling like a marionette with the strings cut as his brain screamed in argument of what he couldn’t deny. Pete took care of Patrick because he loved him, because he wanted to…and no matter how much he wanted, he couldn’t deny that Pete loved him. Love is what made Patrick take care of Pete…and so it followed that Pete would do the same. 

 

Neal’s voice was so infuriatingly calm, and Patrick took deep breaths to calm his pounding pulse. _Talk to him about it. It’s natural for you to feel strange now that you two are almost trading roles, but if you talk about it, I think it’ll help a lot. Because I guarantee Pete wants to take care of you just as much as you want to take care of him. Maybe this is the way you take care of him…you tell him what’s going on in your head so he can understand._

 

The drive home had been silent, but it was comfortable, not filled with brittle tension and frustration. He held Pete’s hand the whole time.

 

~//~

 

They finished dinner that night and Pete picked up the remote. “You wanna watch something?” 

 

Shaking his head, Patrick pulled the remote from his hand and set it on the coffee table before turning to face his husband on the couch. 

 

“I…I want to talk to you.” Pete’s face instantly changed, becoming serious and a little concerned, but he nodded. “I wanted to say thank you for making me go see Neal, and he said I should talk to you about this…so…” He trailed off, feeling like he wanted to just pull his brain out and hand it to Pete so he could make sense of it. Distantly he remembered Pete saying something similar, back when his bipolar had been really bad. 

 

“Babe,” Pete’s voice was soft, and he had scooted closer and taken Patrick’s hands in his own. Liquid brown eyes smiled at him from a familiar face full of acceptance. “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I won’t be mad and we’ll figure it out. I promise.” 

 

Taking a deep breath, Patrick nodded, trying to find the will to smile back. It was just so _hard_ to figure out how to explain it when he only had a tenuous grasp on it himself after the appointment. 

 

“I…I’ve been feeling…guilty.” He looked up to see Pete looking at him strangely, with his mouth open and ready to jump to Patrick’s defense. “Let me just get this out, okay?” He could tell Pete wanted to argue but he nodded in silent agreement, and Patrick felt brave enough to continue. He kept his eyes fixed on their joined hands. “We’ve always…I’ve always taken care of you. Ever since, well, forever, that’s been what we were—I took care of you. And you’ve done such an amazing job of taking care of me, but I guess it makes me feel…like we’re not us anymore, because I’e that’s not how it goes with us. But Neal said that he didn’t think you minded, because I never minded taking care of you. And so I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being such a dick lately, because I know that it’s really not fair to take it out on you. It’s just so strange to need _you_ to do things for me, not the other way around. It just makes me feel like things have changed and…yeah.” He looked up at Pete finally now that it was out, and he felt like a huge weight was off his shoulders. 

 

“Patrick…of course I want to take care of you.” Pete’s voice was soft, tentative. “I…this is going to sound really strange, but I’m really fuckin’ glad I get to do this for you.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign he felt like he wasn’t getting the right words out. “Obviously I’m not like _happy_ this is happening, that you got Alzheimer's, but I guess I just feel like you took care of me _for so long_ and you did such a good job of it, and now it’s like…it’s my turn. You got me healthy, you got my crazy out, and I wouldn’t be here without you. So I feel like…I don’t want anything else but to take the best care of you I can for as long as I can, because the only reason I _can even do that_ is because of you, and I want to give that to you. Because you gave me _everything_.” 

 

All the things Patrick wanted to say were stuck in his head, swirling around and around like water down a bathtub drain. Pete, too, seemed to have run out of words, but there were tears sparkling in his eyes. 

  
He wondered, the next day, who reached for who first. In the end Patrick decided that they had both moved, both reached out, like two waves crashing against each other. Pete’s hands came to cup his face as he wrapped his arms around Pete’s neck and pulled him close. Their lips met and something Patrick hadn’t felt in a long time curled through him like smoke through crisp evening air. 

 

“Bed?” He murmured against Pete’s lips, and he felt the other nod with a breathy gasp. Patrick pulled him up and they stumbled upstairs with their hands still wrapped tightly together. Kicking the door closed with his foot (a leftover habit from raising Charlotte), Patrick wrapped himself around his husband, pressing his mouth to his neck as his hands slid under his shirt and slipped it off. They tumbled to the bed and it was a frantic exercise in elbows and knees and buckles and buttons as they pulled clothes off and Pete clambered on top of Patrick, kissing him like he was pulling oxygen from the others’ lungs.

 

He was pretty sure his hands were shaking as he wrapped them around Pete’s waist, bringing him as close as he could, pressing their bodies together like he could just crawl inside to safety. Pete’s hands were cupping his face, caressing his cheeks as he ground down unconsciously. 

 

“Pete—“ Patrick gasped against his lips as their cocks brushed together, “I—I need you. Please, please I need you _right now_.” He was suddenly shaking with want, with need to have Pete as close as he could possibly be, to be filled and surrounded with the love of his life, the one person who had been with him through thick and thin and everything in between. Pete’s eyes were wide and concerned when he pulled away, and Patrick could see the hesitation brought on by months of him pulling away in their depths. “Please, I…I need, touch me, take me, _please.”_

 

Thankfully, nobody had ever needed to tell _Pete Wentz_ to get closer, to touch them more. Pete’s eyes lit up as he nodded and crouched over Patrick’s body, hands roaming and lips brushing and caressing everywhere he could find. He murmured how much he loved Patrick, how gorgeous he was, how he would always love him, how beautiful his skin was, that he wanted to kiss him forever. Patrick gasped as Pete reached into the nightstand table and pulled out a long-neglected bottle of lube and smeared some on his fingers, his lips never leaving where they were kissing a line of fire down his neck and onto his collarbone. 

 

Gently, he started caressing Patrick’s entrance, and he felt himself clench up at the feeling. It had been so long, _months_ since they had done this. Guilt started to well up in his heart, guilt that he had run away from Pete instead of to him. Tears started to leak from his eyes and he gasped out a broken apology. 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” 

 

Pete’s head shot up like he had been shocked with a taser. His eyes were dark and hazy, but they were rapidly focusing, searching Patrick’s face. 

 

“Babe, sorry for what? What’s wrong?” He looked around, like he was ready for something to jump from under the bed and attack them. 

 

“It’s been so long, I didn’t—I wanted, I’m sorry I wasn’t—“

 

“Shhhh.” Pete gently covered his mouth, and then moved his hand and placed a gentle kiss on Patrick’s lips, then moved to press them to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. “It’s alright. I know it’s been rough, I know. You’re here with me now, okay? You and me. That’s all that matters.” Patrick nodded fiercely, pulling Pete’s mouth back to his own as a few more tears leaked from his closed eyes. Gentle fingers returned to softly tease at him and he tried to relax, to melt into Pete’s mouth and the hand that was roaming possessively over his face, his neck, his chest. It was like Pete was mapping him, was painting him with love and arousal and desire. Carefully he pushed a single finger inside, and Patrick sighed with the feeling and suddenly everything was familiar and _right_. He nodded into Pete’s mouth and he moved deeper, working the muscle until it relaxed enough for him to add a second finger. Patrick moaned as it started to feel _good_ , Pete’s fingers starting to brush past that place that made him tremble. 

 

Tucking in a third finger, Pete whispered in Patrick’s ear how amazing he was, how tight and perfect. How much he wanted him, how gorgeous he sounded, that nobody ever made him feel the things Patrick made him feel. He worked his fingers, feathering his prostate and Patrick gasped and threw his head back, shuddering out a moaning exhalation as he started to move with Pete’s hand, body suddenly crying out for _more, more, please more, I need you, please…_

 

He realized he was saying that out loud, and Pete was gasping out his name with what bordered on reverence. He slipped out his fingers and coated his own rock-hard cock with a generous amount of lube. 

 

“Deep breath, baby.” Patrick obeyed, knowing what Pete was doing, he had said it himself to Pete many times before. “And out.” He let his breath out in a slow rush as Pete eased himself inside, gently pushing past the tight ring of muscle. 

 

He knew Pete would wait as long as he asked him to, he knew that Pete would never push him to do anything…but he _needed_ him to, he _needed_ the stretch and burn and the taking. “Don’t stop,” he gasped out, and Pete started to shake his head but Patrick opened his eyes and hoped that he would understand, that he could _make him_ understand. “Please, I need it—don’t stop.” Pete’s eyes were wide and worried but he obeyed, pushing deeper and Patrick groaned, body protesting just as loudly as it was begging. He told himself _relax, relax, relax_ and he pulled Pete’s mouth to his own and kissed him like his life depended on it. That helped—he felt his body melt a bit as Pete’s tongue dipped into his mouth, caressing softly and the familiar taste and smell and feel of his husband of twenty years filled his senses. 

 

It was like something unlocked then, like his body gave in to what he wanted under the duress of his desires. Fire shot through him as Pete bottomed out and hit his prostate, and he gasped against his mouth. 

 

“—‘Trick, are you…?” Pete pulled away, worried, but in that moment, Patrick knew it was going to be alright. He smiled the best smile he could up at Pete, eyes wide and watering. 

 

“I’m amazing.” He whispered, rocking his hips up to meet Pete and relishing the groan that fell from his lips. “ _Please_ …”

 

With a strangled moan, Pete buried his face in Patrick’s neck and started to thrust gently, building up momentum as he bit and worried the skin under his lips. Never one to be loud in bed, Patrick decided that was stupid and let every sound he wanted out—all the moans and gasps and whispered curses. Pete pulled back to look at him as he moved faster and faster, lighting him on fire, and his eyes were wide with surprise and blown with arousal.

 

“That’s it baby, let me hear you.” Pete slid a hand down from his face to tweak at one of his nipples and he yelped in surprise and pleasure, clenching down around Pete. His hand continued downwards to wrap around Patrick’s hard and leaking cock, and Pete started moving his hand in time with his thrusts. 

 

It was perfect, it was overwhelming, it was _everything_. Patrick opened his eyes, knowing sounds and cries and filth were coming out of his mouth but not caring. All he saw was _Pete_ , all he felt was _Pete,_ all of him was reduced to Pete’s hands on his skin, Pete’s cock buried in him, Pete’s eyes filled with love and desire, Pete’s lips groaning out his name…

 

With a final twist, he shouted Pete’s name as he came, fingers digging into Pete’s shoulders and his back bowing like a over-plucked string. He felt the warmth of Pete’s release deep inside him, he felt Pete shaking against him just as he was shaking under Pete, bodies trembling and overwhelmed with what they felt in their hearts, with what they were, together. 

Pete tumbled to his side, pulling out of him and groaning as he pulled Patrick into his arms. They clung to each other, gasping and breathing heavily. Softly, Pete murmured in his ear, a broken tempo of _I love you I love you I love you forever you’re perfect I love you._ He started to pull away, and an irrational fear seized Patrick’s heart—

 

“No!” He wrapped his protesting arms and legs around Pete, like he could keep him there with just his own strength. Instantly, Pete stopped moving, pulled him closer. 

 

“Babe, I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m just going to go get a washcloth to—“

 

“No.” Patrick heard the fear in his voice, heard the tremor. “Just—use one of the shirts, or something. Just don’t leave me.” 

 

“ _Never_.” Pete breathed out the word like a prayer, reaching down with his foot to snag one of their discarded pairs of boxers. He wiped them both clean and for once, Patrick didn’t care about the slight stickiness left behind—it just meant they were _real_ , they had _really_ just done that, they were _okay._ “I’ll never leave you, ‘Trick. I promise. I’ll be here forever, ‘till—” His voice caught, and Patrick could feel his throat work as he swallowed. “‘Till the end.” 

 

Nodding, Patrick pulled him closer. “Promise?” 

 

Pete pulled the covers up over them and then started running a gentle hand through Patrick’s hair, fingers brushing his scalp soothingly. He pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, murmuring the words against his brow. 

 

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorrryyyyyyyy :'( I can't promise that it's gonna be much more than thunderclouds from now on, but I'll do the best I can to give you little glimpses of the sky. Love you all!


	6. Show the World the Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sundowning" and delivery rooms. It's been a year and a half since the diagnosis, and the totally expected surprises them all.

 

 

It was funny, when he really thought about it. Patrick had always been a night owl…but also was the total opposite of a night owl. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to sleep at night, it’s just he _definitely_ didn’t want to be awake in the morning, so that meant he stayed up later. It was a cycle that totally didn’t always hold true, at least when it came to when Patrick went to bed. Sometimes, he would be in bed asleep by ten and be dead to the world until ten the next morning. Others, he would stay up until the wee hours of the morning working on whatever held him in a thrall, only to finish and collapse into bed like a zombie. 

 

On the other hand, night was not Pete’s thing when it came to sleeping. He knew this, he accepted it. It wasn’t even that he didn’t like the night—it had been so long he’d been like this it was just normal, for it to just be him and the blackness of the star-filled sky and the silence of a sleeping house like an ex he just couldn’t get away from. He could count on one hand the number of times in his life he’d fallen asleep before midnight. It was just the way it was. 

 

Now, of course, like everything else…that was different. Patrick no longer held to his old sleep habits. He still loved sleeping….but he slept _less_. Now he would stay up with Pete, they would sometimes cook or watch movies or just read until two or three in the morning. It seemed like, inexplicably, Patrick’s body rhythms had succumbed to the years of Pete’s abnormality. Like it had just thrown its hands in the air and said “Fine! I’ll stay up too, then!” 

 

Apparently this was totally normal for the early stages of Alzheimer’s. When Pete mentioned it at his support group, one of the wives had mentioned something called “sundowning.” Pete had cocked his head, confused, until she explained—it was common for their loved ones to become uncomfortable or agitated when the sun was setting and directly after as the glow faded from the sky. Pete was shocked as the last six months started to make sense and he once again wished he could shrink the support group and put them in a shoebox under the bed, to take out whenever he had a question or a suspicion. Patrick _had_ totally been doing that—getting antsy, prone to fits of fury or frustration as the sun began to sink in the sky. Sometimes Pete would find him sitting in their closet with the lights off and the door shut listening to Jazz from the tiny speakers on his phone. It had corresponded with the changes to his sleeping patterns, when he would emerge or shake off his funk when the stars came out, all smiles and playfulness. According to the coordinator, it helped sometimes to save the “special” events of the day for that time, to help them get through it. He also suggested that Pete simply pay more attention to Patrick during that time—more hugs, more cuddling, more praise or stories to keep him occupied. 

 

It helped _immensely_. It became a game, almost, to Pete—it made him treasure things even more. He would be on the lookout all day for something to do during the sundown—it could be something as simple as showing Patrick a funny youtube video, or saving the season finale of _Chopped_ or putting on Patrick’s favorite song as the sun started to set so they could dance to it like idiots. It warmed his heart and made him feel like crying all at once as he realized Patrick stopped hiding in the closet when he did that…until one day he wanted to go in the closet, but he took Pete with him. They laid in the dark among their shoes and pants and listened to all kind of songs, putting their iTunes on shuffle and laughing or groaning at each song that played as it traipsed though their musical histories. It became one of their new favorite things to do every couple of days, and turned sundown into a time that Pete actually looked forward to. He would find new songs and wait until then to play them to Patrick, to hear him give a rambling-but-passionate dissertation on why it was or wasn’t awesome. 

 

Then it would be over. The night would come—Pete’s familiar friend—but now he had a Patrick to stand watch with him. They started eating dinner around ten, and watching shitty infomercials or As Seen On TV ads and laughing at them. They would have Marathons of all the Lord of the Rings, All of Star Wars (even Episode II, which Pete hated), all of Firefly or Sherlock. Then, when Pete and Patrick would both wear themselves out, they would tumble into bed only to wake up together the next morning. Patrick was no less bleary or non-verbal in the mornings…it just happened earlier now. 

 

They were half a tub of ice cream into _The Princess Bride_ on a October evening _—_ with Pete quoting all the lines as they went to Patrick’s constant eye rolling—when Pete’s phone buzzed. Reaching over, he swiped it and shoved it against his ear as he battled with Patrick for the big chunk of cookie dough in the ice cream. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

 _Gasp_. “Dad?” _Gasp_. “It’s Charlotte. The baby’s coming.” 

 

“HOLY SHIT.” Pete dropped his spoon and jumped off the couch, starting to pace. “Are you okay? What can we do, do you need—“ He was cut off by a high-pitched cry and the distant voice of Brian in comforting tones. 

 

“Just meet us— _gasp_ —at the hospital.” The line disconnected and Pete turned to look at Patrick, who was gripping the ice cream tightly and staring at Pete with wide eyes. 

 

“Babe, we gotta go…the baby’s coming!” 

 

Patrick shot off the couch like it was on fire, and they were out the door in five seconds flat, pausing only for Pete to grab a jacket for Patrick who was already halfway down the walkway.

 

~//~

 

 

They beat Brian and Charlotte to the hospital (probably by virtue of Pete driving like a bat out of Hell and Patrick wringing his hands the whole way), and they stood pacing at the front of the hospital by the labor-and-delivery entrance. The elderly lady at the front desk had given them a knowing and only-slightly patronizing smile as she told them that’s where the soon-to-be-parents had been told to pull up during the hospital tour. 

 

With a screech of rubber, the car pulled up and Brian jumped out, running around to meet Pete at the passenger door. He yanked it open and his son-in-law reached in to help Charlotte out and into the wheelchair that an attendant had waiting. She was hunched over and rocking, gasping out for breath in-between high-pitched moans. 

 

Like a small caravan they moved inside—Pete held the door open as Brian held onto Charlotte, who had a death grip on his hand, face pale under her sweaty dark hair. They pushed her through the door and helped her up into a waiting gurney, but the change to laying on her back made her cry out, a high-pitched yelp that turned into a keening wail. 

 

In a flurry of movement, the gurney was surrounded by nurses and doctors, and they pushed it through the double doors while two nurses held their hands out. 

 

“Sir, you’re going to need to stay here.”

 

Nodding, Pete ran a hand through his hair, his daughter’s cries echoing in his ears as he stared at the softly swinging double doors. _Please let her be okay_. He prayed to whoever would listen as he reached for Patrick’s hand.

 

 _Patrick_. 

 

His searching hand found empty air, and he looked around frantically. “Patrick?” Turning to the nurses who were standing at the receiving desk, he stumbled over, eyes darting over the waiting room. “Did you see my husband? Navy jacket, glasses, he came in with us? Real pale short dude?” 

 

“Umm….someone ran towards the main hospital when you all came in with her? I guess you could say he was pale.” One of the nurses pointed towards the sliding doors that led back into the main part of the hospital, and Pete’s heart sank. In the hubbub and chaos of getting Charlotte inside, he had totally forgotten about Patrick….Patrick who was easily frightened now of loud noises, who couldn’t watch scary movies because of the gore, and who had just seen his only daughter screaming in pain. 

 

“ _Fuck.”_

 

~//~

 

An hour later, after recruiting the hospital staff to call a code looking for a short man in a navy jacket and glasses, he found him. 

 

Approaching cautiously, Pete sank to his knees in front of his husband. “Patrick? Baby?” 

 

Curled into the corner of a dead-end hallway, half hidden by the shadow of a vending machine, Patrick had his face shoved into his knees, hands covering his ears as he rocked back and forth slightly. 

 

Laying a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder, he shook him slightly. “Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Pete.” 

 

Like someone had hit a gong with the small rubber mallet, Patrick’s head shot up. 

 

“ _PETE._ ” He gasped and threw himself into his husband’s arms, babbling. “I couldn’t find you, I was so afraid, is Charlotte okay? I tried to find how to come back but I got lost and I couldn’t—“ 

 

“Shhhhh.” Pete rubbed soft circles on his back. “It’s alright, babe. I found you, you’re safe. Charlotte is okay, she’s in surgery for a C-Section. They said she’ll be out in about half an hour.” 

 

Patrick was chewing on his bottom lip, blue eyes filling with tears. “She…she was _screaming_ Pete. She was _hurting_ …” He closed his eyes and covered his ears again, tears making silent trails down his cheeks. 

 

“I know babe.” Pete wiped them away and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “But she’s okay now. As soon as she’s all patched up we can go in and see her, okay? She’s doing great they said, a real champ just like her papa.”  Patrick smiled at that and nodded, and Pete took that as a sign that it was going to be alright. 

 

“How about we go grab a cup of coffee from the cafeteria and then we’ll head upstairs to wait for her?” Nodding, Patrick stood up and held out a hand for Pete, to help him clamber to his feet. He didn’t let go of his hand as they moved out of the empty hallway.

 

“Okay.” 

 

~//~

 

Patrick was still holding Pete’s hand firmly as they walked into the silent room. It was lit in calming yellow light, and Pete couldn’t help but smile as he saw the blue and green walls. Turning the corner he pulled Patrick behind him, who was nervously tapping a beat on his thigh, and his hand was shaking a bit.

 

The silence was shattered by a loud cry, and Patrick’s head shot up as they rounded the corner into the room. 

 

“ _Charlotte.”_ Tears were running down his face as Patrick ran over to his daughter. “Are you alright, princess, are you okay?” She nodded, covering his hand where it was cradling her cheek. 

 

“I’m fine, Papa.”  She smiled broadly, and Pete could see Patrick’s shoulders sag a bit in relief, all the tension draining out of him. “Never better.” Brian walked over holding a wriggling blue bundle from the bassinet and settled it in Pete’s hands, who promptly stopped bouncing on his heels and murmuring _ohmygoshbabybabybabyletmesee!_ Her grey eyes were on Patrick as she pronounced, “ _This_ is your grandson, Landon Patrick Moore.”

 

Coming to stand next to Patrick, they both looked down at the tiny wrinkled face of their grandson. Charlotte gave Pete a small, knowing smile—they had talked months ago about the baby’s name. She had told him that they were planning to have more children, and that she wanted to make sure that Patrick knew a little bit of him would live on in his grandson…but she wanted to make sure he knew she wasn’t forgetting about him. Pete had punched her with exaggerated softness in jest (which of course meant Charlotte had made a joke about hitting pregnant women that had them both cracking up) before wheezing out _of course he understood._ Privately, he had smiled on the way home thinking about the look on Patrick’s face when he found out.

 

Gently, Patrick pulled the blanket away and ran a careful finger along his grandson’s arm, down to his tiny hand. The baby grasped his fingers and smacked his lips, causing Pete to murmur a small _awwhh._ Patrick’s eyes were wide as he looked at the tiny fingers around his own. 

 

“Landon Patrick?” He whispered softly, voice colored with disbelief as he looked at his daughter. “Really?” 

 

The small confident smile on Charlotte’s face was amazing, and _so Patrick_ that Pete’s heart felt like it would burst. “Really.” 

 

“Do you want to hold him, babe?” Patrick looked wide-eyed at his grandson and then back up to Pete, before he shook his head gently. 

“Maybe later?” Something was in Patrick’s eyes that made Pete pause for a fraction of a second…but the pleading look on his face made him just nods and smile. He knew that look—he would ask about it later. Patrick pressed a soft kiss to Landon’s forehead.

 

“You’re beautiful, just like your mama.” Patrick gave Brian a quick smile. “ _And_ handsome like your dad!” With that pronouncement, he squeezed Pete’s arm and went to sit next to his daughter. She smiled at him softly as he ran a soft hand through her hair. “You’re really okay?” 

 

Nodding, her smile took on an impish cast. “I am now. Unless you want to hear about when they took my intestines out and put them in bowls—“

 

Patrick dropped his head to rest next to her hip on the bed and furiously shook his head into the mattress. He looked up at her like some sort of mournful puppy. “Charlotte, I love you so much but _please shut up._ ” He looked decidedly green around the gills and everyone laughed softly. Landon picked that moment to let out a loud yowl from Pete’s arms and begin squirming like a fish. 

 

“Someone’s hungry.” Charlotte reached out and Pete settled the baby into her arms. Landon burrowed into her, mewling like a hungry kitten and Pete pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Love you, baby girl. You’re a superhero.” She grinned up at him and he gently pulled Patrick up. “We’ll let you three do your thing…we’ll come back tomorrow, okay?” 

 

“You can stay…” Charlotte started, but Pete shook his head. 

 

“Nah, you guys need to bond and all that stuff Patrick’s been telling me about cause he re-read all the baby books _again.”_ He took his husband’s hand, who was looking sheepish and it was totally adorable. “We’ll come back tomorrow, okay?” 

 

Brian and Charlotte nodded, and Patrick blew her a kiss. “Love you.” She smiled and mouthed back _love you too_. 

 

~//~

 

The drive home was quiet, the red and white lights of the cars on the freeway coloring the landscape like a candy cane. Pete was expecting Patrick to babble and talk about how beautiful the baby was, how surprised he was about his name…but nothing. He simply had his hand on Pete’s leg as he stared out the window. Pete had learned to just let him be in times like this…as long as he didn’t wait _days_ it was just better to let him sort it out in his own head. He’d say something when he was ready.

 

That turned out to be when they were laying in bed…Patrick was laying on his back with Pete burrowed into his side trying to beat the level of angry birds that he had been stuck on for the last three days. 

 

“I’m afraid.”

 

Sliding his phone under the pillow, infuriating birds instantly forgotten, Pete rolled over so he could see him. “Of what?” 

 

Patrick was a ghost in the darkness of their bedroom…a pale figure illuminated by a sliver of mingled moonlight and streetlight. “Falling in love with him just to lose him.” There were tears starting to trace their way from his eyes, sparkling dully in the lowlight.

 

“Sweetheart…” He pulled Patrick into his arms, laying down and wrapping him up tight, whispering softly in his ear. “You’re not going to lose him. He’s going to love you more than anything…nobody can help but love you.” 

 

He felt Patrick shake his head against his chest. He was sniffling softly, muffled and sorrowful. “No, it’s not… _I’m going to forget him_.” Pete’s heart broke all over again as Patrick’s meaning crashed over him. “I’ve had a lifetime with you, and I got to raise Charlotte and see her grow up and… _I had a lifetime._ I should get to have a lifetime with him but I’m _not going to get it_. Maybe it’d be better if he never knew me, because I’m not _me_ anymore…I’m going to be his weird grandpa that doesn’t remember him, and then I’m going to be his _dead grandpa.”_ It sucked that all the words that seemed so comforting a minute ago suddenly rushed out of Pete’s head, leaving him rigid and empty. He had always been the one with the words, he could always find the thing to say, but now he felt like a wood doll, dead and lifeless as Patrick broke apart. “This should be _happy_ , we should be _celebrating_ ….but instead I’m a selfish asshole that’s crying because _I don’t get my grandson.”_

 

Something clicked in Pete’s brain then, something that his mom had told him years before when Charlotte was little. He hoped it was the right thing to say, because it wasn’t _exactly_ comforting, it didn’t _fix_ the problem…but it seemed like the best he was going to get under the circumstances. He pressed a kiss to Patrick’s scalp and took a deep breath. “Babe, I can’t…I can’t tell you that isn’t going to happen. But my mom told me once that being a parent isn’t about you. It’s about your kid, love is that you fade into the background to let them shine. And I know you’re going to love Landon with all your heart for as long as you can, because that’s who you are. You love Charlotte and me more than I think anyone has ever been loved before.” He pulled away from Patrick, who had stopped crying and gone still, eyes squinted shut tightly. Taking a deep breath, Pete took the leap, cupping Patrick’s cheek in his hand. “And when you’re gone? I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him all about you, I’ll make you so real that he’ll know exactly who you are, he’ll know exactly why he was named after his amazing Grandpa Patrick. And he’ll love you right back, forever.” 

 

Patrick’s eyes were still squeezed shut, his lip trembling as he breathed through his nose making short phlegmy sounds. He took Pete’s hand from his face and gripped it tightly to his heart as he burrowed back into his chest, body shaking with the effort to not cry. It was a losing battle, and they both knew it.

 

That’s the thing about love, Pete thought as he held his husband while he mourned the loss of his grandson on the day he was born. It was something so powerful it could make you realize you had to say goodbye even as you said hello. It would make you beg to be forgotten to avoid inflicting pain. It would make you immortal in the hearts of those who loved you back. 

 

Love tore you to pieces, but love also put you back together again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SORRRRYYYYY. So the next chapter is actually the second chapter I ever wrote for this story. But I was about to put it up and realized...this chapter needed to happen first. It was originally going to be just a sweet chapter to give you hope before I break your hearts in the next one. But then my sister gave me an idea for the ending and...yeah. Blame her :P I love you all!!


	7. Don't Pretend You Ever Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when the thing you've been dreading happens it brings a sense of relief, or it can make you realize the end is in sight. Either way...it happens.

He knew this day would come…he had known it since that horrible day they got the diagnosis that was a thousand times worse than anything Pete had ever imagined. He had thought about it endlessly, even though he tried desperately not to. 

 

Patrick had made him go to a counselor and a support group, and while he had resisted at first, he had eventually realized that it was actually really fucking helpful…so he had talked to his counselor—a grey-haired lady named Ms. Broadwell that looked like his grandma and acted like it, unless he was being ridiculous or mentally destructive, in which case she became a total hardass. But he talked to her about it, because he knew he had to before it ate him alive. He talked to the people at the support group about it, and they gave him every range of perspectives imaginable. Some helped, some didn’t, some made him feel better, some scared the shit out of him.

 

He had talked to Charlotte about it. She had gazed at him with those steel-grey eyes of hers and told him in her matter-of-fact way that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because her Daddy would always be in there, and she knew it. She said she knew she would cry, but that above it all, it only mattered what she knew in her heart, not what the disease eroded away and made _look_ real, she knew what _was_ real. Pete had nodded and lovingly cursed Patrick in his head for raising their daughter to be so damn _logical._ It wasn’t fair that the two of them would gang up on him for a “well let’s think this through” exercise when all he wanted to do was be _emotional_ and throw a bit of a hissy fit, thank you very much. But he loved it, he loved that even though Charlotte shared no genes with either of them, he could see Patrick in every tilt of her head and every word out of her mouth. 

 

He had even talked to Patrick about it, hesitantly and with lots of mumbled curses and sniffled tears. Patrick had held his hand, and tried to not cry himself, and Pete remembered cursing this damn disease for making them both cry more then they ever had in their whole lives. Patrick had held his hands and struggled to speak past the lump in his throat for a few minutes, before giving up and tackling Pete, pressing their mouths together in a desperate kiss. They had made love, Patrick’s movements frantic and fiercely possessive as he made Pete shudder and shake beneath him, swallowing his cries as they came together in a crashing wave of blinding ecstasy. But even that had been tinged with sorrow—with a goodbye hung unspoken between them. Patrick had pulled him close after, caressing his face with his fingertips like he was memorizing every contour and curve, and Pete had closed his eyes and tried to feel _everything._ But Patrick had started to nod off so Pete cleaned them up and pulled him close. Just before he drifted off, Patrick murmured in a surprisingly strong voice, “No matter what, _this_ is how I feel, _this_ is who we are, _this_ is what I love.” Pete had only squeezed him tighter, running soothing fingers through his hair until his husband fell asleep. Unable to  do the same, Pete rolled Patrick off him, just enough so he could scrunch down and look at the face of his best friend, a faint smile on his face as he floated on the waves of post-coital bliss, features relaxed, lashes fanned out over porcelain cheeks. He stayed there, just looking at the one he loved, fingers caressing every inch of his face, his neck, his arms…and treasured every second.

 

But now it was here—black and empty and _horrifying_. Patrick’s blue eyes were staring at him with confusion swirling in their depths. His brows were knitted together in concentration as he cocked his head to the side. 

 

“Umm, what did you say your name was?” 

 

He wanted to scream the answer, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg Patrick to remember, he wanted to bolt from the room and vomit. But his counselor’s admonishment after so many years of preparation broke through the hurricane of emotion, and he took a deep breath. 

 

“I’m Pete. I’m your husband, Patrick. We’ve been married for twenty-two years.” 

 

Patrick’s eyes scrunched a bit as he thought, and then his face smoothed over with a look that Pete had seen a thousand times—it was the look when a producer or fellow artist had said hello and Patrick didn’t remember them, but he did his best for politeness’ sake. 

 

“I think you may have me confused with someone else? But I’m very happy to meet you, Pete.” 

 

Woodenly, Pete nodded. “Sure. Is there anything you need?” 

 

Patrick shook his head, still smiling. “No I’m good, thanks. I think I’m going to take a nap, actually.” Pete nodded, not trusting himself to speak, as Patrick pulled the covers up to his chin like he always had and flicked on the TV. Pete left the room at what he hoped was a dignified walk, and then tumbled down the stairs to the guest bathroom, where he threw up everything he had eaten for lunch and sank to the floor, sobbing. 

 

~//~

 

“Pete?” 

 

With a gasp, Pete’s head shot up, wincing at the way his neck muscles were screaming at him. Looking around, he realized he had fallen asleep against the tub in the bathroom. Patrick was standing above him, and his eyes widened with shock and concern as soon as he saw Pete’s swollen eyes and red nose. 

 

“Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you in here, why are you crying?” 

 

It felt like his heart unlocked, like he was no longer tumbling into a bottomless pit of heartbreak as Patrick knelt down in front of him and took his hands. Pete looked into his eyes— _hard_ —as he croaked the most terrifying question he thought he’d ever asked. 

  
“Do you know who I am?” 

 

Patrick tilted his head and gave him a look that said _of course I do, you idiot. I’ve dealt with your shit for the last thirty years._ But then his eyes widened and pain so intense it made Pete feel even worse than he had moments before flashed through his eyes. 

 

“It happened, didn’t it?” 

 

Not able to work words past the rapidly growing lump in his throat, Pete nodded and launched himself at Patrick, pulling him close and burying his face in his neck. He started crying again and Patrick rubbed his back soothingly, making soft shushing noises. Eventually, Pete pulled himself together, brain screaming at him _He’s back, idiot, and you don’t know for how long! Get it together!!_ and he sat back, wiping at his eyes like a five year old. 

 

Patrick pulled some toilet paper from the roll and handed it to him, concern and heartbreak painted in broad strokes over his face.

 

“I—I’m so sorry, Pete.” Patrick’s eyes were filling with tears, but there was none of the desperation that Pete was feeling, none of the hysterics. He opened his mouth to say something, to let out all the emotions bubbling up in his chest, when he heard Patrick’s voice, almost too low to hear. “I guess the borrowing is over, and it’s time.”

 

“Time for what?” 

 

Patrick wouldn’t meet his eyes. “To start saying goodbye.”

 

Shock rooted Pete’s body to the bathroom—he felt like he had grown branches and his body had merged into the drywall, roots burrowing down into the foundation and then down into the frozen earth, making ice shoot through his veins. He worked his mouth open and closed, open and closed, trying to crack the oaken fibers that seemed to want to seal it shut and he lifted his eyes. “How can you be so calm?”

 

A sad smile twisted Patrick’s lips as he rubbed his thumb over Pete’s palm. “I…I don’t know. I guess, it’s been what, three years that we knew this was coming? Three years of being terrified of it and just waiting for it to happen, worrying about when it would happen. I always knew we were just coasting on borrowed time, on chemistry and that cocktail of drugs that wasn’t going to work forever.” He pulled Pete’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly, and then settled it back in his lap, fingers absently turning Pete’s wedding band around and around on his finger. “And now it has…so I guess…we don’t have to wonder anymore.”

 

“How can you not be afraid?” Pete’s voice sounded breathy, shocked to his own ears, and he saw the way Patrick’s breath caught as he inhaled.

 

“I’m _terrified._ Pete, I’m so afraid. It’s…I can’t even believe I could ever not know who you are, it seems so impossible. But…I guess it’s the part of me that always wants to be moving, to be _doing_ something. In a weird way, I don’t know…it’s here now. I can’t do anything about it and somehow that’s…comforting isn’t the right word.” His eyes went to that place that meant he was searching for something in his head, something he had misplaced but knew was still there. Pete had watched him stay trapped in that place longer and longer as time went by…when he resurfaced, sometimes he was triumphant and had found what he was looking for. Most times, though, he just retreated into depression or anger because it was gone, he had swam the depths and come up empty-handed. Today, however, he came back and his eyes were soft. “I don’t know how to explain it. It happened, and we got through it…I just have to believe in that.” 

 

He knew that he should just keep his mouth shut, he should take the peace in Patrick’s eyes and hold onto it like a lifeline. But his brain was screaming, fighting and arguing with his rapidly-losing grip on reality and he couldn’t keep it back any longer. 

 

“What happens when we can’t get through it? What happens when _you don’t come back?”_

 

The tears fell from Patrick’s eyes, then—a crystalline drop tracking slowly down each of his cheeks. His eyes looked almost green when they came back up to meet Pete’s searching gaze, and his words were just above a whisper. 

 

“Then you just have to believe that I’m still in there. That even if my mind doesn’t—“ He stopped and took a shuddering breath, wiping the tears from his cheeks only to have new ones stream down. “—doesn’t remember, that I’m still your Patrick, somewhere. And that even if I don’t know it, that I’ll always love you.” He laced the fingers of their left hands together, wedding bands clinking together as their ring fingers slid next to each other. “And I’m going to tell you that every chance I get until I c-cant anymore.” He coughed out a noise that sounded somewhere between a sob and a sneeze, and Pete nodded, putting his other hand over their joined ones as a thought struck him and he berated himself for being the most selfish person in the world. 

 

“Patrick, I—I’m so sorry, I’m so stupid and wrapped up in myself like an asshole—what about you? You’ll…you’ll think you’re alone.”

 

His smile was fond and just a touch wry. “Well, I figure losing my mind has to be peaceful so I won’t remember it, right?” 

 

“Don’t even joke about that, Patrick—“

 

He was cut off by a shake of his husband’s head, the grey-streaked cinnamon strands falling down over his eyes. “You can either cry or laugh, right? Isn’t that what you told me all those years ago?” 

 

Pete thought back to the day nearly a lifetime ago that he had told Patrick about his bipolar, about his depression and the way demons in his brain screamed at him in the yawning silence. Patrick had cocked his head and looked at him with eyes that saw far more than Pete was ready to show, and had asked _is that why you’re always laughing? To keep the demons away?_ Pete had nodded, shocked that Patrick had picked up on that, that he had cared enough to notice something he barely thought about anymore, and had replied simply _you either laugh or cry, Pattycakes. I hate crying, so I laugh._

 

Pulling himself out of the past, Pete nodded morosely. “Stop being so…yoda-like. It’s annoying.” Patrick laughed at that, a quick bright sound that echoed off the walls of the bathroom, before his face sobered again. “I—I don’t remember a lot about earlier, but…you know how the doctor said it affects new memories, new connections?” Pete nodded, noticing how Patrick skirted the word _Alzheimer's._ He usually did that when he was feeling blue but trying not to show it, but he pushed that aside when Patrick spoke again. “Well, I guess…I’ve always known you loved me. Ever since what, I was sixteen and a half and you were sweet-talking my mom to let me go to band practice? It was something that’s always been there, that’s always been so constant. So I feel like even if I can’t remember a lot of things…somewhere I’ll know the one thing that hasn’t changed in thirty-six years. Even if I don’t know _why…_ I don’t think I’ll ever feel alone because I have that.” 

 

It felt like Pete’s heart was trying to break in two and explode all at once. He hugged Patrick close, burying his face in his neck and, taking a deep breath, he nodded. “Okay.” 

 

Patrick smiled at him when he pulled away. “I love you forever, Peter Panda. I love your chocolate chip pancakes, and your bass lines, and your crazy words scrawled all over my birthday cards, and the way you never remember to replace the toilet paper.” 

 

Nodding, Pete pulled Patrick to his feet. “I love you forever, lunchbox. I love your obsession with hats, and I love the way you stormed into Charlotte’s ninth grade Literature Parent-teacher conference and demanded to know why she hadn’t gotten an A on such a well-constructed essay, and I love the way you know all the lines to Ghostbusters, and how you are incapable of stringing more than four words together in the morning without coffee.” Patrick smiled at him and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said previously, this was actually what made this story into a story. I wrote the first chapter, and then cried a bit and wrote this chapter. I loved it so much, it just kinda flowed out of me, you know? So then I knew that I had to write more, to connect the two chapters...and you've all been along for that journey! It feels really cool getting to share this chapter with you, because it's so special to me. It broke my heart in such a horrible way, but it also has such beauty (I think). Either way, thank you to all who are letting me rip your precious hearts to shreds, I love each of you so much!!


	8. Every Song That I’d Ever Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Patrick shines through, and Pete reflects.

 

Pete was pretty sure he was dead, because his heart felt like it had broken into dust and crumpled down around his spleen somewhere. 

 

Over the last six months or so, Patrick had started to disintegrate rapidly. He struggled to remember to do simple things, like use the bathroom or when the water was too hot to wash his face. Through it all, he was generally calm, leaning towards sadness and chagrin rather than anger. Pete thought that it was an artifact of his hard-won patience, all the times he had to take a deep breath and calm down as they raised Charlotte. Younger Patrick would have probably flown into a fit of rage when he couldn’t remember how to switch the TV input from the apple TV to the DVD player…older, wiser Patrick simply huffed a frustrated sigh and asked Pete why it wasn’t working. 

 

The times when he didn’t remember who Pete was were starting to increase. Every time, Pete’s heart seized, knowing that this _could be it._ This could be the beginning of the end, that Patrick wouldn’t remember him ever again and it would be a long lonely road of heartbreak from then on out. But so far, Patrick had always eventually remembered, but Pete sometimes wondered if it would be a mercy—at least for his husband—if he forgot who Pete was permanently. He started each time to cry bitterly when he realized what had happened, sometimes letting Pete hold him but others he would lock himself in the bathroom and sob out his heartbreak and anguish. Afterwards, though, he would always find Pete and hold him tight, murmuring _I love you, I love you Pete, you’re my husband and I love you more than anything, I’ll love you forever I promise, ‘till death do us part I’ll love you and even after that because you’re mine, you’re my husband, you’re mine and I love you._ Pete would just hold him and burrow his face into Patrick’s chest and cling to every word like an addict taking his final hit before the supply runs out. 

 

But today, Pete gone to the support group meeting, leaving a depressed Patrick bundled up under the covers and refusing to come out. He had wet the bed and neither had realized it until they woke up. Pete had soothed Patrick, bundling him into the shower to relax under the hot spray—Patrick always liked his showers nearly scalding—and had put the sheets in the washer and new ones on the bed before he had gotten out. But Patrick had merely put on new pajamas—a blue Christmas pair from his mom that had penguins scattered all over them—and crawled back into the freshly-made bed and sulked. Pete had tried to comfort him, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal…but Patrick just burrowed deeper and muttered that Pete should leave him alone. So with a kiss to his forehead, Pete had gone to the group meeting, and ranted and raved and cried about how unfair it all was. 

 

But now…he had come home and shut the door quietly in case Patrick had fallen asleep. But instead of being met with silence when he entered the living room…he heard music. With his heart pounding, he climbed the stairs and crept to the door of their makeshift studio, peering in like a peeping tom and feeling just as terrified. 

 

Patrick was sitting on the low chair, playing the guitar and singing like he meant it. 

 

His fingers were nimble, picking the strings and strumming with ease bought with years of practice, the movements carefree. He was cycling through the entire repertoire of all the music they’d made—as a band, as solo artists, and as just the two of them fucking around with words and notes—singing a chorus here, a verse there…with the most beautiful, soulful improvisation between it all. His voice sounded like honey and velvet and sunsets and fall days, humming and singing like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

 

Pete couldn’t help it—he took his phone out, flipped it over to recording mode, and set it against the door frame. He knew Patrick would be furious, would glare and fume if he knew. But he needed this, he knew he would need to _remind_ himself of this moment when things got bad. So he let his phone just record what it could and he listened. 

 

 

_Baby, seasons change but people don’t._

_And I’ll always be waiting in the back room._

_I’m boring but overcompensate with_

_Headlines and flash, flash, flash photography._

 

_But don’t pretend you ever forgot about me._

_Don’t pretend you ever forgot about me._

 

_Me and you_

_Setting in a honeymoon_

_If I woke up next to you_

_If I woke up next to you_

 

_And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies_

_And all the lovers with no time for me_

_And all of the mothers raise their babies_

_To stay away from me_

_And pray they don’t grow up to be…_

 

_You’re a canary, I’m a coal mine_

_Cause sorrow is just all the rage_

_Take one for the team_

_You all know what I mean_

 

_And I’m so sorry, but not really_

_Tell the boys where to find my body_

_New York eyes, Chicago thighs_

_Pushed up the window to kiss you_

 

_The only thing worse than not knowing_

_Is you thinking that I don’t know_

_I’m having another episode_

_I just need a stronger dose_

 

_And in the end_

_I'll do it all again._

_I think you're my best friend._

_Don't you know that the kids aren't all, the kids aren't alright?_

 

_And I’ve labored all this paper as a way to let you know_

_That I’m sorry if I ever made you cry_

_When I made you cry; that’s when I knew_

_When I made you cry; that’s when I knew_

 

_You were the song stuck in my head_

_Every song that I’ve ever loved_

_Played again and again and again_

_And you can get what you want but it’s never enough_

_And I spin for you like your favorite records used to_

_And I spin for you like your favorite records used to_

 

_But we are alive_

_Here in death valley_

_But don’t take love off the table yet_

_'Cause tonight_

_It’s just fire alarms and losing you_

 

_I got troubled thoughts_

_And the self-esteem to match_

_What a catch, what a catch_

 

_I wanna scream 'I love you' from the top of my lungs_

_But I'm afraid that someone else will hear me_

 

_It's too easy to be scared sometimes_

_I'm not gonna lie like I don't understand_

_But it's like the whole world is jumping off the bridge_

_And you don't want to be the one standing on dry land_

 

_You can only blame your problems on the world for so long_

_Before it all becomes the same old song_

_As soon as we hit the hospital I know we're gonna leave this town_

_And get new passports and get get get get get out now_

 

_You need him. I could be him..._

_I could be an accident but I'm still trying._

_That's more than I can say for him._

 

_Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman._

_Maybe he won't find out what I know: you were the last good thing about this part of town_

 

 

The songs devolved into just humming and Patrick’s low, dulcet tones as he strummed and smiled. Pete felt tears pricking his eyes as he saw the little smile on Patrick’s lips as he looked down at the strings, indulgent and fond, and _so very Patrick._  

 

He couldn’t help it…Pete’s mind started to roll backwards, thinking about all the nights and early mornings spent writing those songs. The arguments over chord progression and Patrick’s infuriatingly staunch brand of stubbornness making each one feel like punching a brick wall and trying to run through quicksand. The smile that would break over Patrick’s face sometimes when the words _worked_ and the music flowed and it was perfect…like two pieces fitting together effortlessly. He thought about playing Patrick’s solo CD’s in the lonely solitude of his apartment and the way the emptiness had filled up with his best friend’s voice, his best friend’s soul. He thought about Patrick smiling at him on stage under the lights as he sung his words back to him, knowing what they meant, knowing their value and their cost, their history. 

 

 _You had quite a ride,_ his mind told him, and while the pang that always stabbed at him still came, there was a gasp of thankfulness beside it that was comforting. He would never want it to be over, he would never stop railing against the idea of their lives together coming to an end, of their story coming to a close. But he realized that he could have never had it to begin with—how easy it would have been to have lost all of this at so many points. They _had_ lived incredible lives, they had gone so far past the wildest of their dreams in his parent’s basement in Chicago…and he had gotten to do it all with his best friend. They really had lived the best life…and he would never stop being grateful for it.

 

Then Patrick started playing _Black Hole Sun,_ tender and low like he meant it, his voice threading smoky through the words, trembling as he sang _In my shoes, a walking sleep, And my youth I pray to keep_ and Pete felt his heart break a little more. But peace trickled into the spaces left in his shattered chest, thankfulness for this beautiful reminder that _his Patrick_ was there, that no matter what happened, the beautiful boy with the golden voice was still with him. Even if this was the last time he saw him, even if the next however many years of their lives were spent with Pete taking care of someone who didn’t remember him…it would be a gift. Any time with Patrick was a gift. 

 

_Black hole sun, won’t you come_

_And wash away the rain,_

_Black hole sun, won’t you come_

_Won’t you come…_

 


	9. My Mind is a Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories tangled and remembered and lost...Pete remembers and Patrick is beginning to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to all my lovely, lovely readers who have stuck through with me! I'm sorry for breaking your hearts over and over, but I love you!
> 
> Secondly, thank you endlessly to @Shattered_mirrors_and_lace for looking this over for me and helping me out! This chapter has been keeping me stuck, so I so appreciate your cheerleading and help!
> 
> Last...let me just hand you some tissues now... <3

 

His fingers found the chipped place almost automatically as he took a long drink from the glass, water flowing cool and soothing down his throat. It had been four years since the fight that brought it into existence, and his fingertips stroked the roughened dip almost like one would caress a lover’s cheek as his mind drifted backwards…

 ” _This isn’t about you, Pete, for fuck’s sake! This is what I want, not that I don’t think you CAN, it’s I DON’T WANT it.”_

 

_Patrick was standing behind the kitchen counter,  hands wrapped around his mug with a white-knuckled grip while Pete was pacing a hole in their dining room floor._

 

_“Babe, I don’t want someone else to take care of you, I don’t want a stranger to be that for you. I WANT TO TAKE CARE OF YOU.” Pete couldn’t understand why he couldn’t get it through his husband’s head that he didn’t care. It didn’t matter if Patrick had to wear diapers and be rolled from side-to-side to avoid bedsores because of this damn disease, he wanted to be there every step of the way. “It makes me sick to think of someone else doing that.”_

 

_Patrick shook his head furiously. “Well, it makes ME sick to think of you seeing me like that! I don’t want that, I don’t want the last thing you remember before I fucking DIE is wiping my ass! It’s not going to be easy, I’m GOING TO FORGET WHO YOU FUCKING ARE, Pete! Just let me have my fucking dignity and know you won't be watching me shit myself! Quit making this more DIFFICULT than it NEEDS TO BE, you FUCKING DRAMA QUEEN! ”_

 

_“Why do you think I’d care? You’re my husband and I FUCKING LOVE YOU, YOU DICKWAD! ‘Through sickness and in health’, fucker, those were our vows! I don’t care if I wipe your ass for the next twenty years, I’d rather do that than not have you, you PRISSY LITTLE DIVA! For fuck’s sake, you don’t have to be perfect ALL THE DAMN TIME!” Pete was standing stock still now, facing Patrick, the island a barrier like the Grand Canyon between them._

 

_“GODDAMIT PETE!!!”  Patrick yelled at the top of his lungs, and in a blink of an eye with a deaftening crack like thunder, his mug exploded on the granite countertop as he smashed it with shaking hands. The sound echoed between them, and for a moment, Pete wondered if Patrick was going to pick up the handle that he was still holding in a trembling vice grip and hurl it at him. But then all the color drained out of his face instead, and he sunk out of sight. Pete ran around the counter and pulled the trembling blonde into his arms, and both of them sat on the ground holding each other as the tears flowed steadily from both their eyes._

 

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to fight, I’m so sorry.” Patrick gasped into Pete’s shoulder as he tried to calm down, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I just…it had been bugging me all night, and I shouldn’t have—“_

 

_“Shhh.” Pete pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.” He sat down next to Patrick, both their backs against the cabinets and pulled him close. In the silence that followed, they listened to the birds singing from outside the open patio door, the distant sound of traffic and the occasional hum of a car driving by as Patrick tried to stop crying._

 

_“It’s not…it’s not that I know you wouldn’t do it for me.” Patrick’s voice was small, timid, and exhausted from their fight. “I just…there’s something about it that kills me. It’s bad enough I’m going to forget…everything. Maybe part of it is I just want to spare you seeing me like that, but more than that I just don’t want you to HAVE to see it. Not because I know you can’t, but because I don’t want you to remember me like that.” He looked up at Pete, eyes wide and blue and full of pain that he wished he could take away. “Please. Please just let me have this. It’s not that you can’t handle it…it’s I don’t think I can.”_

 

_There wasn’t anything Pete could really think of to say and argue with that…not when he heard the heartbreak and the shame laced in Patrick’s voice.  As much as he wanted to fight against it tooth and nail, wanted to prove to his husband that he was wrong and that the both of them could handle it together, he couldn’t. So instead, he just nodded and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head._

 

_“If that’s what you want, I’ll respect it.”_

_  
Patrick had sighed and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him and whispering, “Thank you.” They had stood a minute later, when their old joints started to protest sitting on the tile floor, and Pete had opened the trash to sweep away the shattered remnants of the mug. His finger had caught on something, and he looked down, the beginning of a laugh bubbling up from his chest._

 

_“Babe…you CHIPPED the granite.” Patrick looked, eyes wide, and felt the small divot with still-graceful fingers. Pete shook his head, unable to contain the laughter anymore. “Leave it to you to DENT fucking ROCKS when you’re mad, Rickster.” He pulled his husband into a hug and nuzzled into his neck as they both laughed. “Such a little firecracker, God I love you.”_

 

Pete rubbed his finger gently in the small divot in the granite countertops while he thought, thinking back to the fight that had put it there. As much as his therapists had always tried to get him to mature out of it, he couldn’t help it. He loved fighting with Patrick—he always had, he always craved the last word, since the moment Joe and brought him over to Patrick’s house that fateful afternoon. The little guy would get so worked up he’d be like a tiny Incredible Hulk, smashing and screaming at everything in his path. If he was being totally honest too, it totally turned him on, so that was a plus—bossy Patrick was  _hot._  A lot of that had gone away, though…now that Patrick was solidly smack in the middle of full-blown Alzheimer’s. His personality had… _mellowed_  was probably the best word. He was still Patrick, still loved music and funky t-shirts and his hundreds of soft, oversized cardigans and cooking shows. But the highs and lows had been tempered by the disease ravaging his brain. 

 

Now he tended to only get angry when he really couldn’t figure something out, or when he was  _so sure_  that something was a certain way and it didn’t work. Most days he was rather calm, almost docile in a way, though he was starting to noticeably repeat himself, searching for words or names and most times coming up  empty. He didn’t know what day it was most of the time, and had taken to waking Pete up every couple days in a panic that they had missed Saturday morning breakfast with Charlotte and Brian, which often left Pete the heart-breaking task of reassuring Patrick that they hadn’t and reminding his husband of the days, which more often than not left the blonde embarrassed and confused as Pete gently guided him back under the covers. Pete had completely put on hold all his involvement with Decaydance and now just focused on taking care of Patrick, and while the reason for it was a heartbreaking one, he rather enjoyed retirement. Maybe all those people with normal jobs and normal retirement plans had been onto something. Most days Patrick didn’t quite  _know_ who Pete was, but he knew that he was safe with Pete…that they were a unit. It seemed that sense of trust and  _belonging_  had worked its way so deep and so tangled into his brain, that it was so engrained into his being that Alzheimer’s couldn’t touch it, couldn’t erode it away. 

 

Pete wasn’t sure why the fight had popped up in his brain this morning when he woke up at 4am, Patrick curled up against him, breath whistling out through slightly parted lips. It was something about his insistence, about his  _need_  to spare Pete from the worst part of his loss of independence. It hadn’t been that earth-shattering of a fight, all things considered…but it had been one he’d remembered. Maybe because it was the core of the horror of this disease—the terrifying truth that it strips away the ability and the freedom to make your own decisions. 

 

Patrick had told him once that he wished he had gotten cancer or ALS, that he would have taken years of pain over losing his mind. He had bristled at that at first, ready to argue…but Patrick had seen and just shaken his head, forestalling any further discussion. That had churned in his mind for the last two years, and he was starting to understand both sides. On one hand, he understood that even if Patrick been in pain, he would have at least been  _in control._  But he couldn’t help but be thankful that hadn’t been the case—he was pretty positive he couldn’t have handled watching Patrick be in pain, to waste away in agony. At least this way…he wasn’t hurting, and he didn’t know how far he had fallen down the rabbit hole. The constants of life to him were that Pete was still there, that they still went on their walk every day down to the little hipster coffee shop and he could delightedly deliberate on which tea to get (he always ended up picking either green or the orange blossom), and that he had his favorite blue bowl to eat dinner from. He mused, as he rubbed the chip in the granite, that this disease had hurt Patrick…but he didn’t know it. He was the person who had to carry both of their pain—Patrick’s confusion and his own searing loss—but he was happy to do it. He was happy to know that after all the years of Patrick carrying his own insecurities and Pete’s depression that this was the very least he could do this for him. 

 

 _I’d do anything for him,_ his brain helpfully supplied and he agreed. His life now revolved around the moments—not quite  _rare_  but definitely  _infrequent—_ when Patrick remembered, when he was the same person he had loved and married. But he also now appreciated the moments when, despite not knowing all the pieces of the puzzle, Patrick’s personality would shine through. He would ask questions over and over, and Pete had to dig deep to find the patience to calmly repeat the same answer…but the answering smile or the look of smug satisfaction on his face that was so  _him_  was a gift, he was starting to realize.  _Nothing is quite the same, but that doesn't mean everything had changed_. Ever a lyricist, the words rolled around in his brain, and he liked them. He liked their balance, he liked the hope that echoed around the harsh truth. It reminded him of other words, lyrics he had written what seemed like a lifetime ago, that Patrick had given life and meaning to in more ways that he could count. _Baby, seasons change but people don’t and I'll always be waiting in the background._ He smiled, feeling like he understood the song even better now.

 

At peace, he put his empty glass in the sink and went back upstairs, curling around Patrick like a vine. 

 

“Nothing is quite the same, love, but that doesn’t mean everything has changed. I’ll love you forever.” He whispered the words to his husband, and he would have sworn Patrick’s lips curved in the briefest of smiles. 

 

~//~

 

“Hey, Pete. Do you remember that time we were in Tokyo and we got lost on the subway?” 

 

Patrick was sitting at the island in one of the tall chairs, spinning his blue bowl around and around. Looking up from where he was slicing the pre-made lasagna into squares, Pete smiled. 

 

“Yes I do. That was so crazy.” He carried over a piece balanced on the spatula and placed it in Patrick’s bowl. “Let me grab you a fork.” He took his own piece and put it in a bowl for himself, and brought it back along with silverware. Handing it to Patrick, he smiled. “Blow on it, okay? It’s hot.” 

 

“You’re hot.” Patrick giggled, an uninhibited sound that made Pete’s heart clench and soar at the same time, but dutifully he sliced off a bite and blew before starting to munch. “Anyways, remember how we took so many subways that were the wrong ones we ended up so far away that we took the bullet train home!? It was so fast!” 

 

Pete froze, mind running back over the trip. They had indeed gotten lost, but they hadn’t ridden the bullet train…that was something Patrick had been dying to do but they hadn’t quite made time for. Something plucked at the space in his chest, right below his lungs, as he realized that was a dream that would forever go unfulfilled for his husband. But if his brain, riddled with failed connections and dead-ends, wanted to make him believe he had gotten to ride the bullet train, who was he to argue? “Oh yeah, it was seriously so cool!” He smiled at Patrick, who was chewing thoughtfully. 

 

“Why don’t we have trains like that in America? Like seriously, we have no bullet trains and only one flavor of Kit-Kat. So lame. Japan has it figured out, did you know…” Patrick prattled on and Pete just chewed, enjoying his varied opinions on American versus Japanese society. Once they were done, they put their plates in the dishwasher and cleaned up the food. 

 

“Want to watch something?” Patrick nodded, and they went into the living room. He plunked down and pulled his favorite blanket over his legs—a vibrantly-rainbow’d batman/gay pride one that a fan had sent them years ago and Pete had found in their room of gifts. Turning on the TV, Pete plopped down. “What do you feel like?”

 

“Whatever you like.” Patrick was polite as always, and Pete smiled, knowing that he was opinionated as ever underneath it. He flipped through the channel guide, eyes peeled for the types of shows Patrick loved.

 

“Looks like there’s a space documentary on National Geographic, or  _Cutthroat Kitchen_  is on Food Channel.”

 

“Space?” Patrick looked at him with his head tilted to the side, somehow reminding him of a bird perched on a branch. Pete nodded and selected that channel, and Patrick’s smile was wide as the program came on. 

 

“Who is this narrating it? He sounds so familiar.”

 

“Ummm.” Pete listened. “Oh, that’s the physics dude, Neil Degrasse-Tyson.”  

 

Patrick made a contemplative noise as he nodded his head, and Pete remembered he needed to put the lasagna in the fridge. 

 

“I’ll be right back, I just need to go put the lasagna away.” He hummed absently in agreement, already deep into the exploration of black holes being shown in 3D on the screen. Pete had his head buried in the fridge, trying to figure out how to make room for the tray, when he heard a frustrated exclamation from the living room, followed by a long—and very creative—stream of invective. 

 

“Patrick?” He ran back in, and came up short as Patrick yelped, eyes wide as Pete suddenly appeared. He sat heavily on the couch, dropping the remote and started to rock, a restless back-and-forth movement that always made Pete think of a vibrating coil, held under pressure. He started to tap his knees with his fingers, a frenzied beat that had no discernible rhythm, only agitation. 

 

 _Way to go idiot, do everything the books say not to do._ He berated himself, but then remembered what the group leader would say.  _Don’t focus on how you messed up, focus on how to resolve the problem going forward._

 

“Patrick, it’s me, Pete. I’m sorry I scared you.” He rounded the corner of the couch and sat down gently at the opposite end. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing’swrongNothing’swrongwrongwrongNothing’swrongwrongNothing’swrong.” Patrick was repeating the two words over and over. 

 

“I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. We can figure this out together.” His voice was calm, not patronizing but soothing, simplified. He hated having to talk to Patrick like this…it was too much like talking to a child in his mind, but he knew it was the best thing to help him, to bring him out of the confusion and fear and frustration. Patrick didn’t reply, his eyes firmly fixed on where the remote had fallen to the ground. Suddenly realizing what had probably happened, Pete slowly started to move towards it.

 

“I’m here to help you, Patrick, okay? I’m going to pick up the remote now.” He got down and sat on the floor next to Patrick, picking up the plastic remote. He had gotten one of those universal ones last week, because the one that went with their TV had lost the back of the battery panel, so you had needed to press the batteries in to get it to work. Patrick had gotten frustrated several times when he couldn’t press them in the right way, so he had gotten a fully-functioning remote from Bath and Body Works. Maybe that change had been what did it. “Is something wrong with the remote? Were you trying to do something?” 

 

The frenzied rocking and tapping started to slow, and Patrick nodded, still looking at the remote with a sternly focused expression. “I…it wasn’t loud. I needed to be able to hear what he was saying but the buttons don’t work,” He said through clenched teeth as the aggravated tapping resumed, and Pete hurried to rectify the issue. 

 

“I’m sorry, Patrick, it must have had something weird happen. Let me try, okay?” He pressed the volume, and the narration became louder, a soothing stream of scientific mumbo-jumbo emanating from the speakers. “There. Is that better?” Nodding, Patrick stopped tapping completely, but he still was rocking a tiny bit, back and forth. “This is a new remote, so you press this button to turn it up, and this one to turn it down, see?” Pete held it out and showed Patrick the bright blue arrow buttons. 

 

“Okay.” Patrick reached out and pushed the buttons, first down to silent and then back up to the volume he wanted. Then he sat back and pulled his blanket back over him, still hunched a bit but no longer tapping or rocking. Pete counted that a success. Carefully, with slow movements he climbed back up on the couch and sat next to Patrick, not touching him. He had learned that he didn’t like to be touched for a while after an outburst, almost like he was ashamed but didn’t quite know why. They sat in stilted silence for a while before Patrick asked, “Umm..who is narrating this?” 

 

“Neil Degrasse-Tyson. He’s a physicist.” Pete repeated his answer, and Patrick nodded. His brow was a bit furrowed as he watched, eyes riveted to the screen and Pete gently reached out and rested his hand on Patrick’s thigh, just below where his clasped hands were. He instantly moved his left hand to twine with Pete’s, attention unwavering as he listened to information about the composition of Saturn. Pete released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding at the feeling of their hands connected. 

 

 _It’ll be okay. One day at a time_ , he told himself, and settled back on the couch to watch Patrick watching the show.

 


	10. Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad (Me and You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon in the life of Pete + Patrick + Moderate Alzheimer's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY!!!!! Let me just say that...I'm trying to get to the happy stuff, I swear, because there actually *will* be some bittersweetness at the end to say thank you for all the misery you've let me put you through! But...I'm sitting in Starbucks, I just finished this chapter, and I might be crying. You've been warned.
> 
> Love you all! <3

They walked slowly, enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze…at least, that’s what Pete hoped. It was hard to tell nowadays—Patrick was in a fluid state of confusion that had led Pete to accept that he should just assume Patrick didn’t know him, for all their sake’s. He hoped Patrick’s silence on the walk meant that he was enjoying the sound of birds in the park and the sun through the trees. His hand was warm in Pete’s, prescription sunglasses perched on his nose under his favorite tan fedora. He had on his “old man windbreaker” as Pete had called it when he had brought it home years ago, but Patrick had merely sniffed and yelled at him to get off his lawn and make him a sandwich. 

 

Someone rounded the corner with a German Shepherd on a leash, and Pete felt Patrick tense next to him. 

 

“Patrick, it’s just a dog, he’s nice, I promise.” 

 

The Shepherd started pulling a bit on its leash, sniffing towards them and whining as it came closer. Pete pulled Patrick gently off the sidewalk and into a shop door alcove as he clutched at his arm in fear. 

 

“No, no it’s not, see he’s mean.” Pete moved to stand in front of his shaking husband and smiled at the young lady as they went past. 

 

“I’m really sorry, he’s friendly I promise—“ The girl started, pulling out an earbud and giving them a smile.

 

“It’s fine.” Pete smiled back, hoping she would just move on. “My husband’s just a bit nervous of big dogs.” She nodded understandingly, jogging past them and turning the corner. Patrick moved out from behind him when they were out of sight and gave Pete a strange look. 

 

“Umm…you said I’m your husband?” His voice lilted upwards at the end, confusion painting the sentence. “I’m not sure that’s right…what did you say your name was?” 

 

 _You would think this would get easier after three years,_ Pete thought to himself as he took a deep breath, fighting back the rising nausea. “My name is Pete. You’re Patrick, you’re my husband.” 

Unfailingly polite—Pete frequently thanked his lucky stars that Patrick hadn’t gotten violent as his memories started to clash with reality like some of the others in his support group had—Patrick shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I married someone. You said your name is Pete?” 

 

Deciding to take a different approach, he nodded. “Yep. Pete—I’m your best friend. Since your sophomore year of high school.” Patrick looked at him, and Pete could almost _see_ the way his sparking and frazzled brain was desperately flipping through the remaining connections. But then, like storm clouds parting in front of the sun, his face cleared. 

 

“ _Ohhhhh, Pete._ Right!” He smiled dazzlingly and Pete’s mind flashed back to the kid in the argyle sweater and socks who opened the door to his band and his heart at the age of 16. “Well, we sure have gotten old, right?” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker and gave Pete with an expectant look. “Where are we going?” 

 

“A coffee shop just down the corner.” Pete pulled him gently out of the alcove and Patrick complied, walking next to Pete with a smile on his face.

 

“So what have you been up to lately? It’s been years since we got together!” 

 

This was familiar ground, at least. “Oh you know…I still write lyrics occasionally, still reading Star Wars books and watching Indiana Jones.” Patrick nodded, playing with the change in his pocket that Pete always made sure was there.

 

“Do you have any kids? Did you ever get married?” _This_ was new—he’d never asked Pete that question before when he just remembered him as his high school friend. For a long minute, Pete was silent as he tried to figure out what to say. Patrick took his silence as hesitation, and started to apologize, but Pete shook his head reassuringly. 

 

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got a daughter named Charlotte. She’s the best—she’s married to a great guy and they have the most incredible little boy named Landon. Plus, she’s expecting a little girl.” 

 

Patrick’s smile was expressive and full of joy. “That’s so great! I had no idea, you’re a grandpa! Wait, are you married?” He stopped walking and looked at Pete strangely, like he was examining him for the first time. 

 

“I was.” He took a deep breath, hoping this didn’t turn into one of Patrick’s episodes and hoping that his counselor was right about this whole _honesty is the best policy_ thing. “I was married to a really amazing guy. He was the best thing in my whole world.” 

 

“What happened to him?” Patrick’s voice was low, filled with compassion and sorrow. 

 

“I lost him three years ago.” Pete felt his heart crack a little more, because to Patrick’s disintegrating mind, this would just be one more conversation lost to the black hole of Alzheimer’s. To him, it was the barest coloring of truths—Patrick was still alive, and he was eternally thankful for that fact. But he’d lost his _husband_ three years ago.

 

“I’m so sorry.” There was genuine heartbreak in Patrick’s voice as he pulled Pete into a hug, right there on the sidewalk. He melted into it, burying his face in Patrick’s neck and reveling in the way it felt—Patrick didn’t understand who he was most days, so hugs and kisses and cuddling had become another casualty of the disease. When he pulled away, he tucked his arm around Pete’s, pulling him close as they started walking again. 

 

Patrick broke the silence after a block, voice contemplative. “I wish I had gotten married. It would have been nice, you know? To have someone.” Pete nodded, not trusting his voice as he continued. “But…you want to know something funny?” He didn’t wait for a response before he blushed a light pink and continued on. “I always thought that we’d get together, like…one of those _if we aren’t married by the time we’re forty let’s just call it a day and get married_ sort of things.” He smiled up at Pete. “I had the biggest crush on you for so many years, you have no idea.” He said it like it was a confession, a secret he may as well reveal because they were just lonely old men, but it warmed Pete’s heart nonetheless. 

 

“Well, shit on a stick, Pattycakes, aren’t you something.” Pete smiled at him. “If I’d have known that I’d have come for you years ago.” Patrick blushed and elbowed him. 

“Well, I’m just here. You can hang out with me anytime you want.” He gave Pete a conspiratorial smile, and he couldn’t hold back a laugh. 

 

“Deal.” 

 

They continued walking, thankfully not running into any more dogs, and the coffee shop came in sight. 

 

“Pete?” Patrick’s voice was soft, tentative. 

 

“Yes?” He squeezed Patrick’s hand where it was resting in the crook of his elbow encouragingly.

 

“Do you—“ Patrick paused and he just stayed quiet, letting him process at his own pace. “Do you think sometime, if you were okay with it of course…I could meet Charlotte and your grandson?”

 

Coughing to cover the sudden urge to sniffle and/or sit down on the ground and cry like a girl, Pete nodded and gave him what he hoped was an inviting smile. “Of course. I’m sure they’d love that.” Patrick grinned irrepressibly as Pete pulled open the door of their destination. 

 

“Hey guys!” The blue-and-green haired barista called from her spot behind the cash register, and Pete held up two fingers behind Patrick’s head. Hannah nodded, still smiling, as Patrick waved, switching out his prescription sunglasses for normal glasses. Pete had explained the circumstances to them about a year ago, and they had worked out a system Hannah and the other baristas all knew. They had even taped a little sticky-note by the cash register to remind the new help—one finger meant they were married, two fingers meant they were friends, three fingers meant pretend we’re strangers. 

 

“Hello Patrick, how are you today?” Hannah smiled her irrepressible grin at them, and Patrick gave her an equally-sunny smile. 

 

“Great! This is my best friend, Pete, we’ve been friends since I was in high school.” Hannah smiled knowingly at Pete and nodded her head sagely. 

 

“Friends are awesome. What would you like to drink today?” Patrick considered the board—like he always did—and Pete ordered a hazelnut mocha with extra whip. 

 

“He always did like more sugar in his drinks than coffee.” Patrick rolled his eyes at his order and gave Pete a look laden with years of _putting up with his shit_ and then turned back to Hannah. “Can I have green tea, please?” 

 

“Of course!” She pulled out the box of teas from under the counter and opened it, something they did every time they came. “Would you like peach green tea or regular?” She peered in the box, “Oh! And we have a new flavor—blueberry.”

 

Considering the small pouches like they were gold, Patrick adjusted his glasses. “Let’s live dangerously. I’ll try the blueberry.” Hannah smiled and took Pete’s offered ten dollar bill. 

 

“You’re such a renegade, Patrick! It’s why I love you.” He blushed and thanked her, turning away as Pete motioned for her to keep the change. She mouthed _thank you_ dropping the extra bills into the tip jar, and they chose a table by the window. Hannah brought their drinks a few minute later, and Patrick wrapped his fingers around the mug painted with constellations—his personal one that they kept here at the coffee shop. 

 

“This is nice. I love this mug.” Pete nodded, taking a sip of his drink and smiling. He said that every time. “Remember those awesome space shirts I had??” Pete laughed and nodded, Patrick’s eyes taking on a far-off cast. “I wonder if I still have any of them.” Snapping back to Pete, he leaned forward. “Do you have any pictures of your daughter and grandson?” 

 

Pete hummed an affirmative, moving his chair around the table and pulling out his phone. This was something his counselor had advised him to do, and it had saved his ass more times than he could count. He had albums of each of the more “normal” scenarios that Patrick would remember with any sort of frequency these days. He had one for the rare days when he remembered their marriage, and it had pictures of all of them together and happy and smiling. He had one for the days when he remembered Charlotte but not Pete, and it contained pictures of just Patrick with his daughter. He had one for days when he didn’t remember anything and he would just show them pictures of their lives like they hadn’t been intertwined almost inseparably. Now, he pulled up the album of himself and Charlotte and Landon, with no pictures to confuse Patrick about why he would be in photos with Pete’s daughter. 

 

“Here they are!” He said brightly, and Patrick pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned in to see better.

 

“Ohhhh they’re beautiful!” 

 

Flipping through the photos slowly, sitting by the window on a crisp September day, Pete introduced an adoring Patrick to his daughter and grandson all over again.


	11. I Don’t Just Want to be a Footnote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet and peaceful mean two different things, they hurt two different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay, my friends!!! I'm doing BBB this year, and it's kinda taken up my life! But I'm going to try to get this wrapped up for you before I have to start hibernating and working on that in earnest!!

 

 

”He’s all good to go.” Looking up, Pete smiled at Jackson. “I’ll be back in like two hours to check on you guys, three tops.” 

 

“Sounds good, thanks.” He tucked his book back into the little basket by the couch and stood. “How’s he doing?”

 

Jackson shrugged as he pulled his jacket on over the light blue scrubs. “Okay, it doesn’t seem like a bad day. He didn’t fight me at all and the tremors aren’t the worst.” He brushed a shock of bright blonde hair from his eyes and picked up his keys. 

 

Nodding contemplatively, Pete stretched his back a bit. “Fingers crossed. See you in a bit.” The young nurse gave him a bright smile, nodded and left, closing and locking the front door behind him as Pete sighed at the empty house echoing back at him. Heading into the kitchen, he got breakfast for Patrick and headed up.

 

True to his word, Pete had gotten a nurse to do the majority of the heavy lifting when it came to Patrick’s care. Jackson came every morning to get Patrick showered and dressed, out of the overnight incontinence diaper he had to wear and ready for the day. He’d come back every few hours to check on them, staying with Patrick when Pete had to get groceries or get medication or just needed to do dishes. They had employed a female nurse for a week—a motherly woman named Shonda, but Patrick hadn’t been comfortable with her, shying away and acting nervous. But Jackson had been perfect—easygoing and seemingly unflappable. They had discussed as Patrick continued to worsen, Jackson would eventually stay longer and longer, up to 24-hours a day, but for now this was enough. 

 

Opening the door to what he had come to think of as “Patrick’s room,” Pete poked his head inside. A piano, a television, a guitar and a drum kit circled the edges of the room, along with a large record player for Patrick’s vinyl collection. A coffee table sat in the middle with ten or so wooden bowls that contained an assortment of items that Patrick liked to fiddle with and would usually calm him down—an egg of Silly Putty, dice, a stress ball in the shape of a football (which Pete had always thought was an ironic shape for someone who hated sports), a braided piece of yarn, a silver hinge. 

 

There was some sort of jazz with strings and a percussive saxophone playing, and Patrick was sitting in the La-z-boy by the window, just staring out. His hands were busy in his lap, shaking as he stretched a rubber band around and around his fingers as he looked at the clouds as a cold September front moved in, promising brisk mornings. 

 

“Morning, Patrick.” Pete said as he walked in, pulling up his chair to sit beside his husband. 

 

“Hi.” While not the most verbose reply in the world, it heartened Pete. Some days, Patrick wouldn’t even speak, lost in the dead-ends of his mind, and the good days, when he would play the piano or mess around on the guitar, were rapidly becoming fewer and farther between. Most times he just gestured or used very few words, almost like it was too hard for him to translate his thoughts into sentences…but it was alright today. This was a good middle ground.

 

“I brought you breakfast. It’s cinnamon toast crunch.” Patrick’s love for cereal had remained, and it was a good habit to ground the day in. Pouring the milk over the small graham squares, Pete cocked his head. “You want to try eating it?” Patrick merely sat, hands opening and closing around the rubber band, so Pete sighed gently and used the spoon to pick up a bite. “Here, open up for me?” He held it up, and Patrick dutifully opened his mouth and took the bite, crunching and making a small, appreciative noise. They continued like that, Pete feeding him bites and Patrick chewing until it was gone. 

 

Setting the bowl on the coffee table, he laid his hand on Patrick’s arm. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?” Slowly, Patrick looked down at the hand on his arm, and then up to Pete. The blue eyes he loved so much were beautiful and blank, staring at him without recognition, and it broke his heart afresh every time to see it. But Patrick didn’t say anything, didn’t argue with Pete’s hand…he simply shook his head and resumed his contemplation of the clouds. 

 

Pete sighed and squeezed Patrick’s arm gently as he went to sit in the round Papasan chair on the other side of the room. He pulled his laptop from the side table and started fiddling around, answering emails and reviewing documents. He didn’t _need_ to do the work…but he had found out he needed something to do, something that made him feel productive when his life sometimes felt like it was slowly rolling backwards. 

 

After a while, his apple watch beeped and he looked down at the little alarm. _Bathroom_ it read and he swiped to silence it. 

 

Standing, he went over to Patrick—all slow movements and careful gestures.

 

“Patrick, I’m going to help you up, to go to the bathroom, okay?” 

 

Blue eyes slowly moved up to his, and his forehead creased a bit. “No.” 

 

“It will just take a minute, okay?” Pete pulled the blanket off Patrick’s lap and took his hands. “Nothing to worry about, you’ll be back in a flash.” 

 

“…In a flash.” He mumbled the words and let Pete help him up and slowly they shuffled towards the bathroom, Patrick limping on his right leg like he had for the last few months. _Just another thing his brain forgot how to use._ Pete thought glumly as they moved along. He helped Patrick pull his pants down and settle on the toilet, and then left with a quiet reminder to call if he needed him.

 

Standing outside the door, his phone vibrated in his pocket—gone were the days of funny ringtones, as they startled Patrick to tears now. Pete had started to tell everyone to silence their phones when they came over. He looked down and smiled to see his daughter’s name on the screen.

 

< _I found a cool book I think he might like. Can I come over in 15 minutes and give you a break? >_

 

He smiled as he typed. _< YES hes said some words 2day so thats gr8 _>

 

 _< Perfect. See you soon.> _Came her perfectly-grammatical reply and Pete smiled as he put away the phone. The two of them, Charlotte and Patrick both, had never once used an abbreviation beyond the occasional “lol” in texts, no matter how fragmented his own were. _Such peas in a pod_ he thought. The sound of running water interrupted his musings, and he opened the door to find Patrick standing with just his hands under the water, motionless. Humming a soft tune, he squirted some soap on his husband’s hands and helped him soap up and dry off. 

 

By the time he had Patrick settled back into his chair, Charlotte texted him again. _< I’m right outside the door. Should I come in?>_

 

Instead of answering her, Pete walked over and slipped out of the room. She was waiting in the hallway with a large, glossy-covered book in her hands. 

 

“Hey baby girl.” He smiled as he hugged her carefully around her growing belly. “How’s my favorite granddaughter doing in there?” 

 

“Kicking _all the time_.” She grinned and settled his hand on her belly. His eyes widened along with his smile as he felt the patter of motion. “It’s getting annoying.” 

 

“Must take after her grandpa, always moving.” He bent and pressed a kiss to where he had felt the baby kicking. “Your grandpa Pete is going to teach you to be the best soccer player this side of the Mississippi little one.” Standing back up, he ran his hand through his hair. “He’s doing okay today. Said _hi_ and _no_ , so that’s pretty good.” 

 

She smiled sadly. “You want to make us some tea?” He nodded and took her hand, and together they entered the room. 

 

“Patrick? Charlotte is here to see you.” One of the hardest things had been learning to not use words like _sweetheart_ or _babe_ or _daughter_ as they confused Patrick. Slowly, Patrick looked up from the rubber band in his hands and over to them. A smile slowly worked its way across his lips and he murmured a soft _hello_. They never were sure if he was smiling because he remembered her, or if he just still felt the need to be polite…but it always made Pete’s heart feel like it unclenched for just a second all the same. 

 

“Hey.” Charlotte’s voice was soft as she pulled up the stool and sat down next to her father’s chair. “I saw this book at the library and I thought you’d like it.” She settled it gently on his lap and opened it to a glossy full-page spread of a brightly-colored tree frog. Patrick hummed as he looked at the pictures of life in the Amazon, occasionally helping Charlotte turn the pages with shaking hands. She talked softly about each picture, reading the caption for him in a steady, comforting tone and Pete felt like he wanted to cry and laugh all at once. He hated, positively _hated_ that this was the only way Charlotte could spend time with her beloved daddy, but he also thanked all the Gods in the sky that she was _so damn good_ at it. She never got emotional—at least in front of Patrick—she never got frustrated or unsettled…she just calmed and soothed and smiled and Patrick always seemed comforted with her presence. 

 

Leaving the room quietly, he went downstairs and made them three cups of green tea, slipping an ice cube into Patrick’s so it was cool enough for him to drink without hurting himself. Placing the cups on a tray, he carried it back into the room, just in time to see Patrick reach out a tentative hand to Charlotte’s belly. She took a breath in that wasn’t quite a gasp, and she settled her hand over his lined one. 

 

“I’m going to have a little girl next month. We’re naming her Eileen, can you feel her kicking?” Patrick’s brow creased as he felt the baby kicking under his hand and and he stared intently. Charlotte looked up at Pete as he settled the tray on the coffee table. 

 

Patrick looked over at Pete briefly as he pulled his chair closer to the two of them, but then his gaze returned to his hand under Charlotte’s. A small, soft smile tucked up the corners of his mouth and he whispered, his voice hoarse and breathy.

 

“Honey…is for bees, silly…bear.” His hand shifted just a bit, and then he pulled it back and settled it on top of the book, tapping the page softly as he looked out the window. 

 

Charlotte’s eyes were wide and Pete could feel tears welling in his own as their amazed gazes met. He shrugged and gave her a watery smile, which she return as she pulled the book from Patrick’s lap. 

 

“Would you like some tea?” She asked, and Pete gently placed the mug in Patrick’s grasp, lifting his hands to help him take a small sip. Pete sat back down and handed his daughter her cup and they talked quietly about the nursery and Landon and Brian’s promotion as Patrick held his rapidly-cooling mug and stared at the clouds.

 

 


	12. We Could be Immortals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True love never ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, my friends, my friends....I'm so sorry. This is the end of this part of the story. Let me warn you now, you'll probably need tissues, because I cried my eyes out writing this. 
> 
> BUT, I'm not going to leave you heartbroken and hanging. So please don't hate me too long, because there is going to be more (how you ask? Just wait and see!) that will totally make you feel better (hopefully!) It's enough for @Shattered_mirrors_and_lace to not hate me forever, so...that's a plus. She was hugely helpful for helping me refine this chapter, so thank you dearest!

 

 

Yawning as he settled into the chair, Pete leaned forward and brushed the hair down on the side of Patrick’s head--he had been tossing a bit, mumbling unintelligible things. He looked up at the monitor as he took Patrick’s hand, as it blinked its steady report of his heart rate, respiration, pulse...it all said the same thing to him in jargon that he didn’t need to  _ understand _ to  _ know. _

 

The end had been coming for years, and while they both had known it, it didn’t make it any easier. There was a strange sort of exhaustion in his heart…not the kind that necessarily agreed when people said  _ oh you must be so ready for it to be over. _ He would never trade a minute with Patrick, no matter what that minute contained…but he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t  _ tired. _ Tired of hurting, tired of his heart breaking over again at the blankness in Patrick’s eyes, tired of watching him fall apart, his body withering and fading away as his brain forgot how to take care of its host. But that didn’t mean as he sat holding Patrick’s hand in a hospital that he would give away even a second of it.

 

His eyes closed and he laid his head next to their clasped hands, his head nestled against Patrick’s bony hip. It was strange to see Patrick  _ bony _ , after all the years of his delightful plumpness that Pete could never get enough of. But the pressure of his head pressed against anything that qualified as  _ his husband _ was enough to put him at relative peace, and his mind drifted.

 

_ Muffled cries as Patrick huddled against the wall when he woke up from a nightmare and didn’t know who Pete was, curling into a terrified ball and crying out for his husband, for Pete to come help him. He had flinched whenever Pete tried to tell him that HE was Pete, that he loved him and that he was safe. Patrick had wailed and cried that he WASN’T, that he needed PETE. Sobbing himself, Pete had let Jackson push him out of the room as the he sailed in with unflappable calm, barely looking upset to be woken up by the scene. The nurse had shut the door gently behind Pete, and unable to stand anymore, he had sunk to the floor and cried. _

 

_ Blank eyes as Pete spooned small bites of chocolate pudding into Patrick’s mouth. When the food was gone, Pete set the bowl to the side and took the book from the nightstand. Clearing his throat, he began to read from the dog-eared pages of Patrick’s copy of  _ A Moveable Feast _ , and smiled as he saw notes and highlighted portions around his favorite sections. Patrick’s breathing was even, slow as he read, and eventually he looked up to see him asleep. Standing, he lowered the head of the bed so Patrick was laying flat, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before leaving the room. _

 

_ Squirting lotion onto his hands, he spread it on the paper-thin skin of Patrick’s arms and hands. It smelled of lavender—one of Patrick’s favorites—and usually brought a small smile to his face when Pete began to do the daily routine. He rubbed it in gently and then rotated and bent Patrick’s arm at the elbow, shoulder, and wrist, limbering the joints and talking softly as he did so. Both arms done, he moved to Patrick’s legs, smoothing the lotion in as he bent his knees and rotated his ankles, before settling at the foot of the bed to massage Patrick’s feet with the scented cream. A hum came from Patrick’s chest, and Pete smiled at the sound.  _

 

_ Charlotte gliding into the room with Brian, tiny Eileen sleeping in her arms. She kissed Patrick on the head and settled the baby on his chest. She took a shuddery-baby breath and then nuzzled into him. Charlotte settled one of Patrick’s hands on her tiny back and then sat down, talking to him in a low tone about their day. Patrick didn’t respond to the baby on his chest beyond a small humming sound, but that was enough. Charlotte ran her hand softly through his grey hair and smiled bravely.  _

 

_ The awful, heart-freezing moment when Jackson’s eyes met his own and told him that they needed to take Patrick to the hospital. That the rattling way his breath sounded was not a good sign, and that he needed to prepare himself. The ambulance ride, no sirens blaring but terrifying all the same, holding his hand as Patrick shook in fear and confusion, unable to grasp what was happening.  _

 

_ All that swirled through his mind as he held Patrick’s hand and felt sleep tug at him. His last thought before he dipped under the waves was a memory of what seemed a lifetime ago. Of Patrick singing deep and soulful into a microphone under a wall of lights “And in the end, I’d do it all again…I think you’re my best friend, don’t you know the kids aren’t all, the kids aren’t alright.” He smiled at the image of his golden boy with the golden voice, singing his words and drifted to sleep. _

 

A soft sound pulled him back to awareness, years of being alert for the slightest sound from his husband had made him an even lighter sleeper. Lifting his head from the bed, he heard what he thought at first was Patrick moaning.

 

“Patrick, are you alright?” He started to stand, to reach for the call button...but then he heard it. 

 

Nothing Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump had ever done could be considered  _ tuneless _ . He had always made anything sound amazing, nothing ever sounded  _ bad _ . From the times he would sing lullabies to Charlotte at three in the morning when she was teething, exhausted but so in love to the times he would dance around on stage singing his heart out, to the times Pete would catch him singing Katy Perry while he did the dishes. 

 

This...this barely qualified as a hum, as a tune. But Pete knew it--he knew it because he had written it, he had watched Patrick turn it into a song. But more than that, it was the song that had brought the band back together. It was the song that had brought  _ them _ together, finally. 

 

In an instant, his mind swept backwards in a flash of thought, so compressed it could have hardly been called a memory if it hadn’t been so precious, so real, so significant. 

 

_ He could feel himself trembling as he sat gingerly on Patrick’s couch of his small Chicago apartment. It had been a year and a half, a year since he had breathed the same air as his best friend in the world, since he had seen those eyes as they looked at him, measured him, found him ENOUGH like no one ever had. Patrick was slimmer, hair an explosion of bleached strands and hairspray, but it looked good. He looked good, but more than that, he was still HIS Patrick.  _

 

_ “I…” He couldn't think of what to say, he couldn't find a way to say what this song meant. That it was everything he wanted and hoped for and dreamed of and prayed for all wrapped into one. It was him telling Patrick that this was him grown up. This was him understanding that he couldn’t force Patrick to do anything or be anyone, that he finally had come to peace with what they were, no matter what the future brought. He had found contentment, but that no matter what his feelings hadn’t changed, that they never would no matter what form they took. So he just handed Patrick the battered notebook, cover folded around so the third page was open, staring at him with all the words that had taken him three years to figure out how to say and mean.  _

 

_ Looking at the holes in the knees in his pants, he jumped a bit when Patrick’s hand curled over his own.  _

 

_ “It’s about me, isn’t it? They’ve ALL been about me, and I was too blind to see it.” _

 

_ He had gasped at what he saw in Patrick’s eyes. It was maturity, it was compassion, it was years of sorrow and missed time and mistakes and coming home to the light on. It was LOVE. The words seemed to catch in his throat as another scratched song came to mind that was buried in that notebook, buried in broken hearts and years of misunderstandings.  _

 

_ “You were the song stuck in my head. Every song I’ve learned to love.” _

 

It all flashed before his eyes in what felt like a millisecond wrapped up in a thousand years, as he realized Patrick was humming the chorus from  _ The Kids Aren’t Alright _ . It was the first song they had written together after the band had gone on hiatus, the first time he had felt like everything was  _ right  _ in the world as Patrick took his words and sang them back to him made of gold and sunshine. 

 

Sitting down next to his husband of forty-one years, Pete hummed the words with him, tunelessly and shaky. Patrick’s breath wheezed through his lungs, and Pete could barely make out the song for all the wooshing air sounds...but he heard it. He heard it like it was the call for help from the rubble, the shout between the crashing waves, the echo through the trees. 

 

He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, as he whispered the words back to Patrick when he stopped humming altogether, his breaths raspy and labored. His thumb ran over the back of Patrick’s hand in soft circles and he knew he had to do this. He had to sing the words to his love, his soulmate.

 

_ And in the end _

_ I'd do it all again _

_ I think you're my best friend _

_ Don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright _

_ I'll be yours _

_ When it rains it pours _

_ Stay thirsty like before _

_ Don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright _

 

As silence settled in the room like a blanket, heavy and final, he watched with amazement as Patrick’s lips worked their way into a small smile. The smile that he would give Pete from across the room so he would know  _ you’re mine. I’m yours. You aren’t forgotten. You are loved.  _ Slowly, his eyes opened, staring off into nothingness, lost in the endless twists and turns of his rapidly degenerating brain...but they were the blue he loved, they were the eyes that he had watched blaze with anger and fill with tears of joy and sorrow, they were the eyes that he would wait impatiently to open in the morning, his own face tucked into the pillow watching, the eyes that had shone with love when they said their wedding vows. 

 

“I love you, Pete.” 

 

Patrick whispered the words on a breathy exhale as his eyes fell closed, and Pete felt himself go shock still, his entire body tingling like it had been struck by lightning. His chest felt like it was exploding and clenched in a vise all at once, and a thousand things thundered through his head in an instant that he wanted to say, that he wanted Patrick to know if this was the last time, the last miraculous moment Patrick would actually  _ hear  _ him. 

 

But he realized as he opened his mouth, there was really only one thing to say. There was only one thing that he wanted Patrick to take with him into whatever came next until Pete found him again. 

 

“I love you, Patrick, forever.” 

 

The small smile was there still as Pete bent down and carefully pressed a soft kiss to Patrick’s full lips, chaste and loving. It stayed on his face as Pete sat down on the bed, curled into the small space next to Patrick, their hands still twined together. His heart thudded with shock, gratitude, awe...Patrick hadn’t said words in  _ months _ , he hadn’t remembered who he was in  _ years. _ Pulling his chair close he nestled against his husband, tears leaking from his eyes as he told him in shaky, halting gasps how much he loved him, how perfect he was, how nothing in the world could ever replace him and that he was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He told him all the things that he had built up over a lifetime of  _ loving Patrick _ , and he hoped fervently that he heard some of it, that some of it worked its way in through the cracks in his mind. But as the night wore on, he just sang the song over and over, knowing he couldn’t carry a tune if his life depended on it, but not caring. If that’s the song his best friend remembered, then he would sing it to him forever. 

 

The small smile remained on his lips all night. It was still there when Pete jerked awake to the steady tone proclaiming that Patrick had breathed his last, with  Pete’s kiss on his lips and his hand in his husbands, wedding bands glinting softly in the florescent light. 

  
  



	13. The Ringin' In My Ears Gets Violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the silence that kills him. The silence that is so loud with his own tears and the absence of Patrick, filled with condolences and apologies he can't quite hear. He just wants a sign, something to know that it's going to be alright...that isn't too much to ask, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDS! This is my (sort of) apology for all the pain I've put you through? I know it's been a painful journey, but I hope that these...give you a bit of hope to hold onto. The whole thing I wanted to do with this story was show that love can endure even through heartbreak and illness and forgetting and pain...So I hope that shines through a bit here. There will be a bit more after this before I'm ready to say goodbye to this story, so I hope you enjoy for now!

 

He’d never understood the phrase  _ it was all a blur _ like he did in the week after Patrick’s death. The hours after were a jumble of his tears soaking into the fabric of Patrick’s hospital gown as he sobbed into Patrick’s chest and whispered promises and declarations of love. 

 

The next three days were a flurry of funeral arrangements, questions he didn’t want to answer and things he couldn’t bear to think about. He sat, pale-faced and shaking as the coroner came to formally pronounce Patrick, filling out forms and saying words that he just couldn’t quite grasp like  _ death registration  _ and  _ burial certification.  _ He watched, jittery and terrified as the funeral home workers draped a white sheet over Patrick’s and gently transferred his body to a black body bag on a stretcher. He tried to follow, but his mother held him back, tears falling silently down her face as he crumpled to the floor of the empty, echoing hospital room. 

 

He sat through the funeral, silent, staring at Patrick’s casket. Through the roar in his ears he heard friends, family, loved ones and strangers telling stories about a beautiful life, a beautiful soul, a beautiful person. He heard the sounds of people weeping and he couldn’t understand why  _ they _ were crying, they hadn’t known Patrick like he had, they didn’t know what Patrick looked like when Charlotte screamed in the bathroom because of a spider and he had jumped off Pete’s lap to run to save her. They didn’t know the way Patrick would spread butter on his toast all the way to the edges in a thin layer and blot off the excess. They didn’t know the way he would curl up around Pete, protective and warm and solid, pulling him back into his own skin when he would have a nightmare. 

 

People came to say they were thinking of him, to hug him and pass on their condolences and he just nodded, silent. He tried to smile, tried to say thank you...but the roar in his ears made it hard,  _ so hard _ to hear what they were saying. So he just smiled and nodded and listened to the thunder of his heart. He tried to remember what Patrick’s voice sounded like, listening for an echo of it in each and every person who spoke. But he couldn’t...it was right  _ there,  _ but just out of reach.

 

He was hoping against hope that there would be  _ something _ as he stood next to Charlotte and Brian as they lowered Patrick’s casket into the ground. His heart thudded and begged for a monarch to fly across the group and let him know Patrick had made it, for the wind to bring him one last laugh so he’d know Patrick was happy in the afterlife...but there was nothing. Just the sound of his heart breaking in the silence of his own mind. Charlotte threw a red rose in as they lowered it down, and each of the grandchildren threw in roses of their own. Her grip on his hand was tight as she laid her head on his shoulder and started to cry, and he wondered distantly if Patrick would jump out of the casket like he had in that stupid music video they had made a lifetime ago as he pulled her into his arms. The gathered mourners started to dissipate, until it was just them, crying next to Patrick’s grave.

 

Now...now it was silent. Like his house, like his heart, like his head. The car was idling in the driveway of their house, and Pete couldn’t bring himself to go inside.

 

“I’ll be right back.” Patricia squeezed his arm as she got out and walked purposefully to the front door, unlocking it and going inside. Pete wondered distantly where the Stumph’s got all that determination and stubbornness, because it was sure a thing to behold. Several minutes later, Patricia came back carrying a large duffel bag and several framed photographs. Pete scrambled out of the car to help her and she shooed him away with a look that was all  _ Patrick _ . It hit him in the chest like a ton of bricks, and he crumpled back into the car as she set the things in the backseat. With just a gentle hand to his head, she put the car into reverse and they whizzed out of the neighborhood, leaving the house dark behind them. Pete was silent as they drove, eyes not really seeing anything but the skyline whizzing past and the echo of his heart in his ears. 

 

Finally, they pulled up to the Stumph’s house. Patricia shushed his protests, and told him to get out and grab the bag. She took the pile of frames and other items and ushered him into the house, up the stairs and into Patrick’s old room. 

 

Pete started shaking as he walked in—Patricia had kept it largely unchanged from hoq it had been when Pete had met Patrick. Posters on the walls, records and CD’s everywhere…the only difference was now there was a double bed shoved in the corner. She led him to it and pushed him down. 

 

“Patrick made me promise to do this three years ago, before…” She trailed off, and they both knew what she wasn’t saying. “He said that you would fight it, but that you would need this.” She set the photographs on the nightstand—a crappy selfie of twenty-something Pete and Patrick giving cheesy grins to the camera that Pete was holding above their heads. A picture of them on their wedding day, Patrick’s head thrown back laughing at something Pete said as they danced. A slightly-blurry picture of them holding Charlotte in a hospital nursery, both of their cheeks painted with tears of joy. One of them at Charlotte’s college graduation, her hair cut to a short dark bob and her smile luminous. Pete felt himself start to cry again just looking at them, and he looked up at Patricia ready to ask her to please take them away, that he couldn’t--but then she handed him a battered composition book. 

 

“This is for you. From Patrick.” Her voice caught with unshed tears. “He told me he’d been keeping it…and told me where he hid it. Somehow he remembered to always put it in the same place, he wanted you to have it when he was gone.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and handed it to him. “Stay as long as you need, sweetheart. You belong here.” 

 

And with that, she turned and left, closing the door behind her. 

 

Pete felt like his brain was somewhere outside of his body as he looked down at the notebook. He stared down at the cover and felt a strange reticence. He had seen Patrick writing in it until almost the last year…who knew what kind of ramblings were in there? But he shook his head, and pushed the thought away. If he could get even a second more with Patrick—in whatever form he could—it was worth it. 

 

So he opened to the first page, and began to read.

  
  


_ Pete,                                                                                                                                          _ _ November 11 _

 

_ This was something my therapist recommended I do. He said it might actually help me a bit, but more importantly it would help you someday. I felt selfish, but I held back from doing it for a while after he proposed it, because it just felt like giving up. But then I read something that said “documenting the little details of your everyday life becomes a celebration of who you are,” and that made me feel like this was less of a goodbye then…a monument (fancy, I know). Maybe a miracle will happen and I’ll magically be better and not have Alzheimer’s, maybe it won’t. Either way…it made me happy to think that there’s a little something of me left (other than all our albums, you know, no big deal). Something that’s *all me* will endure. And I want that to be for you. _

 

_ I wrote Charlotte a letter, and I put it in here. Please give it to her (you can read it too, I don’t mind), but don’t tell her about this. Its just for you and I. Well, and my mom knows but I don’t think she’s read it (though you never know. She’s a sneaky one!)  _

 

_ Pete, I don’t know how much longer we’re going to have. I don’t know how many times I get to tell you I love you, so I want you to listen to me. No matter what happens, no matter what I say or what I forget—I LOVE YOU. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me (well, you tie with Charlotte but I know you’re okay with that) and every moment we’ve spent together has been everything I’ve ever wanted. I don’t know how to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me over the years, and I don’t know how to thank you for how I know you’re going to take care of me, before the end. But I have the greatest confidence you’re going to take the best care of me, and I can’t tell you how that eases my mind.  _

 

_ I’ve done a lot of reflection over our life together, and I can tell you with complete certainty that it has been the best life, better than I ever imagined I’d get to have. The best part, though, was sharing it with you. Getting to have you by my side for every stupid, awesome, hysterical, frustrating and amazing moment has been perfect. You’re perfect, and I’ll always be thankful that you saw something in me that made you want to stick around. I’m eternally grateful I got to know you, much less play in a band with you, much less fall in love with you and marry you, much less raise the most beautiful daughter with you! And even though this isn’t the ending I know we wanted…I wouldn’t change a thing in the world.  _

 

_ Love forever, _

_ Patrick _

  
  
  


_Husband,_ _November 16_

 

_ You broke down and went to the Alzheimer’s group my therapist recommended you go to today, that’s where you are now. You should know better than to try to out-stubborn me. I always win, you should know that after all these years. Puppy dog eyes or not, I’ll always get my way =) I know it hurt you going to it, and hearing all the stories of how bad it could get. But I know that you need it, you need people who understand and who are on the same road as you are. It makes me feel better, to know you’ll have a support system someday when I’m gone.  _

 

_ It’s so weird to think I’m not going to be here someday. I mean, I never thought I was immortal like you did (case in point—the umbrella/roof incident) but I just didn’t think it would be this soon. I’m not so much upset that I’m going to die, and I don’t feel like I…wasted my life or anything? I mean, we’ve pretty much done everything and more I dreamed of doing when I was sixteen and wide-eyed. But I think the part that hurts the most is not being with you. I worry about you. I worry what you’re going to do when I’m gone, who is going to take care of you and make sure you take your meds and eat something other than pop tarts and pizza. I hope that you’ll let Charlotte take care of you, because she’s already told me that she’s going to yell at you until you go stay with her and Brian for a while. She’ll need you just as much as you need her, and even though you’re her father and I know your urge is to protect her, she’s stronger than you think. I hope you’ll let her help, I hope you’ll talk to her about this, because I think it’ll do you both some good.  _

 

_ I’m going to try to write down at least one memory every time I write in here…we sure have enough of them, don’t we? I was thinking about that phase I went through where I was obsessed with languages. You know the first phrase I learned in each of them was “I love you”? I used to say them to you all the time, and I don’t know if you ever knew that’s what I was saying. If you ever learned a language, the first thing I think you’d try to learn was “do you have pizza.” I used to string them all together and sing it to you when you couldn’t sleep, and to Charlotte when she was little. Something about saying that one phrase in every language I could bumble around in seemed so neat, almost like it was a key to unlock everything else. My favorite “I love you” is still the one you said to me, that first night you came over after the hiatus and we finally figured all our shit out. I think it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and I can still hear it in my head. It’s like one of those tear-memories in Harry Potter. I can pull it out and play it whenever I want. You know what really got me about all our “I love you’s” though? Once you said it, and I stopped being pigheaded enough to listen…I heard all the “I love you’s” you’d written into all our songs through the years. I felt like a total idiot for not hearing them sooner…I still regret that we wasted those years we could have been together fucking everything else that walked and breaking each other’s hearts. But hey…we can’t change it, and it’s okay. But if I could change one thing about the past, Pete, it would be that I met you when I was five, and I married you at eighteen. Because you’re the best thing in my life, hands down.  _

 

_ I love you, _

_ Patrick _

  
  


There was a CD sandwiched in the pages at the end of that letter, labeled only “Listen—I love you.” Pete swiped at his eyes with his left hand as he settled it gently into Patrick’s clunky old sound system that had been his pride and joy at seventeen. Clicking the button to slide the CD drawer back in, he lay down and buried his face into Patrick’s pillow, hoping to find the faintest whiff of him there. He held the notebook to his chest as the soft strains of an acoustic guitar floated out to him.

 

Then he was crying and smiling and trying desperately to shut up and listen, to not miss a moment. Because  _ Patrick was singing to him _ . He was singing the song that he always heard snatches of when his brain was screaming at him and he would beg Patrick to make it stop. When Patrick would hold him and let him shake and fall into an uneasy sleep, he would hear strains of this song as the noise in his head started to fade, but he had never really  _ heard it _ . Not in its entirety. Not like this. Patrick’s voice sang to him in languages that made no sense, but they wrapped around him like a balm. 

 

_ Volim te, moja ljubav, _

_ Ana Behibak ‘iilaa al’abad, _

_ Ma armastan sind alati _

_ i agápi mou den tha teleiósei poté _

 

_ Ik hou van je, Ik hou van je, _

_ Ich liebe dich meine Liebe, _

_ Watashi wa mugen ni anata o aishieimasu, _

_ Ní bheidh mo ghrá a athrú. _

 

_ Aloha wau ia ‘oe _

_ Salanghae _

_ Ma timīlā'ī māyā garchu _

_ Kocham Cię _

 

_ Ez hej te dikim, _

_ Shijian bu hui gaibian wo de ai _

_ Eu te amei desde a minha primeira respiração _

_ at ako ay pag-ibig mo hanggang sa aking huling _

 

_ Ek het jou lief, _

_ Ya lyublyu tebya bol’she, chem zvezdy _

_ Ti amo più della vita, _

_ Tha gaol agam ort mhaireas buan gu brath _

 

_ Anh yêu em _

_ Rwy'n dy garu di, _

_ Ikh hab dir lib, _

_ seni seviyorum. _

 

_ T'estimo en aquesta vida, _

_ Ka aroha ahau ki a koutou i roto i te muri, _

_ Budu tvoje navždy, _

_ I ty budesh moyim, lyubov moya. _

 

But his head shot up as Patrick began to sing in English, and he realized he was translating the song, singing it so that Pete could understand. So he would finally know what Patrick had been singing to him for all those years.

 

_ I love you, my love (Bosnian) _

_ I love you forever (Arabic) _

_ I love you always (Estonian) _

_ My love for you will never end (Greek) _

 

 

_ I love you, I love you (Finnish) _

_ I love you my dear (German) _

_ I love you endlessly (Japanese) _

_ My love for you will never change (Irish) _

 

_ I love you (Hawaiian) _

_ I love you (Korean) _

_ I love you (Nepali) _

_ I love you (Polish) _

 

_ I love you (Kurdish) _

_ Time will not change my love (Chinese) _

_ I have loved you since my first breath (Portuguese) _

_ And I will love you until my last (Filipino) _

 

_ I love you (Afrikaans) _

_ I love you more than the stars (Russian) _

_ I love you more than life (Italian) _

_ I love you eternally (Scottish Gaelic) _

 

_ I love you (Vietnamese) _

_ I love you (Welsh) _

_ I love you (Yiddish) _

_ I love you (Turkish) _

 

_ I love you in this life (Catalan) _

_ I’ll love you in the next (Maori) _

_ I’ll be yours forever (Czech) _

_ And you’ll be mine, my love (Ukrainian) _

  
  
The CD played on an endless loop all night, and Pete slept deep and dreamlessly.


	14. Baby, Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick's letter to Charlotte

_ Dearest Daughter, _

 

_ I’ve been staring at this paper for about fifteen minutes now, not because I don’t know what to say but because I have TOO MUCH to tell you, my beautiful girl. I’ve been trying to tell you some of it, but I know I have to get the important bits on here, so you’ll have them when I’m not here anymore (Not that you need help from me…I’m pretty sure you’re a better grown-up than your dad or I will ever be.) _

 

_ Charlotte, you’re the gift that we never thought we’d get to have, you’re the dream I had given up on ever coming true. The day we held you for the first time was one of the best of my life—better than my first concert or my first AMA or my first record. You were so beautiful, not just because you ARE stunning, but because of how much I loved you, how much I wanted you. Having children was one of the things I thought I’d never get to have when I figured out I was gay, and I mourned it. It was one of the most unexpected blessings when your Dad told me he wanted a baby…he wanted to have a family with me. I still can’t believe we were so lucky to get you—you were a thousand times more incredible than we could have ever dreamed. _

 

_ I’ll never forget the first time you gave me that perfect, toothless baby smile. Or your kindergarten graduation, how amazingly cute you looked in your pigtails and missing teeth. I remember worrying endlessly after you left for Prom with that stupid boy (Kevin, wasn’t it?) because you were so beautiful and elegant and such a  _ lady _ , and I was so proud of you and also so afraid that something would happen to you. Your Dad laughed at me but he let me rant, because I think he knew it was a lost cause. Or remember when you graduated—secretly, I always knew you were going to be Valedictorian, but I felt like I was going to explode with pride, seeing you up there. And your wedding day—I know you know I cried seeing you in your dress. But I remember feeling…I don’t even know how to describe it. I had always been so afraid to let you go and I had been so afraid that the man you fell in love with wouldn’t be good enough for you. I have no problem admitting I don’t think I could have watched you marry a jerk, knowing that he would hurt you someday. But giving you away to Brian…I knew he was the right one. I knew that he would take as good care of you as I would, and it somehow felt  _ okay. _ I never thought I’d be able to let you go without compunction, but I did. Guess that just proves you have good instincts :) _

 

_ My baby girl, I don’t know what the future is going to be like. I don’t know if I’m going to get to truly say goodbye to you, or if this disease is going to take that from me. So that’s why I decided to write this, because I want you to know  _ The Truth. _ You’ve been so amazing at…seeing through the fear, and I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that. My practical princess, my little Mary Poppins, to the end. Charlotte, I love you. Nothing will ever change that, even if I don’t remember it anymore, it’s a fact. It’s something that doesn’t need to be tested or proven…I love you, and I love being your father. I feel like my life has been a series of “wow, I didn’t realize how good this could be.” I never realized how amazing being with your Dad would be until it happened, and then I spent every moment being blown away. Being your father…I knew it would be an adventure, I knew it would be amazing, but I had no idea HOW amazing. You were the most wonderful child, and you’ve grown into a breathtaking woman. I could write pages and pages to tell you how proud of you I am, and how you have surpassed my wildest dreams. Being your Papa is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and I can’t help but say thank you. Thank you for loving me, and for giving me everything I have ever wanted in my life. You were the puzzle piece I had given up on ever finding, but you made your Dad and I complete, you made us a family.  _

 

_ Now…onto the part you’ve been waiting for—the rambling advice that you don’t want or need. God knows you’re most definitely smarter than I am and I’m so thankful for that. I don’t need to tell you how to live your life, or how much money to put away for retirement, or to never stop going on dates with Brian. You know all that, and I know you’re going to have an amazing life, because YOU are amazing. But what I do want you to know is that life isn’t perfect…it’s not something you can put into a glass case and keep pristine. It’s messy, it’s dirty, it hurts and it’s amazing…and if I’ve realized something now that I’m sitting here looking back…it’s that all of it is priceless. Waiting for you, that was one of the roughest patches of my life…getting rejected so many times, seeing the heartbreak on your Dad’s face every time as I tried to hold back my own. There were so many times we got a phone call and thought “this is it!” and then it didn’t work out...but I can honestly say I’m so glad that none of those adoptions ever came to be, because I can’t imagine anyone else in the world as my daughter.  _

 

_ I suppose if I was going to pick one thing to tell you that I wish I had known all along, that I wish I could go back and tell myself at 20...it’s to just ENJOY life. I used to be so driven, so relentless in my pursuit of what I thought I needed to do, or what people expected of me...and your Dad helped me realize that I was missing LIFE by doing that. So what if I was going to be tired on the plane, going to that place that has a million reviews for the best ice cream that’s three hours away...worth it. Once I stopped worrying about what people thought or what I was supposed to do and just went for the things that made me happy...THAT’S the way to live life, baby girl. Sleeping in the backyard with you in your tent even though I’m pretty sure I herniated a disc doing it, jumping in the bouncy house with you and your Dad at your fifth birthday party, going on that roller-coaster at least once with you...those were the moments that I treasure most. So I know things can be crazy with a little one, but just...enjoy the moments, because soon you’ll be watching them graduate college and wonder when they stopped wearing studs and ripped jeans and left the “Emo” phase behind.  _

 

_ Thank you for being my daughter, Charlotte. You’re our miracle, my baby girl, my princess. Every moment with you has been a gift--even that time you were vomiting all night because you took that bet at school and ate the sandwich from the bottom of that kid’s backpack!! I am proud beyond measure of you, of the woman you have grown into and the person you are. Being your Papa has been the greatest thing I’ve ever done with my life, and my love for you will never end. I’d say that I’ll always be watching over you, but you and I both know that you are more than capable of conquering this life on your own. Just know that no matter what happens, what this life and the next holds, I’ll always be here, always love you, and always be proud of you. _

 

_                                                                                                                                                                       Papa _


	15. In the End, I'd Do It All Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends!!! I want to say so many thank you's...but let's finish the story, and then I'll blather. I thought a long time about how I wanted to end this and...man, I was crying in Starbucks writing it but I hope it makes your heart feel a little less broken. The theme of this story is that love--REAL love--transcends illness, time, heartbreak, and death, and I hope that shone through for you. 
> 
> Love!!

_I FUCKING SWEAR TO GOD PETER LEWIS KINGSTON WENTZ THE THIRD!!!!!_

 

_[scribbles] Whoops, my pen died. Maybe it had something to do with me digging a channel in the paper with your name up there. You just *had* to throw me a ridiculous birthday party, didn’t you? You never could resist a good party, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I think I was...it was just overwhelming. To see everyone...it felt good, it was incredible how many people were actually willing to come back here for me. Haha, it’s also how crazy how old we’ve all gotten...no surprise Josh Dunn’s hair is still ridiculous colors. Anyways...thank you for doing that for me. I know (because I know you!) that you also did it for you, you ancient-ass party animal. But you’re the best._

 

_You passed out (probably the fact that someone brought weed and you thought you were still 25 and tried to smoke some. HA) and I’m in the kitchen making some tea. Figured I’d write something while I’m awake...can’t sleep for some reason._

 

_Seeing all those people...it was amazing. We have some crazy friends but they’re the best people in the world. I swear Andy is a vampire--he seriously looks the same, and I love that Joe is embracing his inner Jew a little hahaha. I don’t know what we did to get so lucky--hell I still don’t know how *I* got so lucky to even have you, much less the band, much less see the world, much less get Charlotte--but it’s incredible. And you know, I really want you to listen to me...It’s my birthday so you have to. I want you to STAY friends with them. I know you like to hide (though you’ll never be as good at pity-hibernation as me!), but when I’m gone...please don’t hide from them. Let them love you and take care of you. I know it’ll be hard, and I know that you’ll probably want nothing to do with smiling, but please do it, for me. I can’t bear to think of you hiding in bed alone. It’s a huge consolation to me that Charlotte got about 100% of both of our stubbornness, so I know she’ll drag you out, kicking and screaming if she has to. Remember you have a promise to keep...that Landon will know who I am. Can’t do that if you’re hiding, Peter Panda :)_

 

_Happy Birthday to me. Thank you for the party and the pack of Depends (you’re an asshole!) and I love you._

 

_Patrick_

 

 

  
  


_Pete,_ _November 28_

 

_ I haven’t written in this for a week or so, because it just…it hurt. It felt like goodbye, and it’s been a tough week. Talked to my counselor about it, and he said that this is really good for me to do, but to focus on the good things when it’s hard. He said it’s good that I like…tell you things. But if I can’t do that, he said to just write down memories—good, bad and otherwise. So I’ll do that, for now. _

 

_ Remember when we brought Charlotte home and we both couldn’t stand to have her so far away so we brought her to sleep with us, but you were so afraid that we’d roll over and crush her (and you made me paranoid about it too, so thanks jerk) so we like put that huge pile of pillows in the bed and put her on top of it? Haha, she really was like the princess and the pea that night. Damn, we got so lucky with her, didn’t we? _

 

_ Oh man, remember when we all went to see The Force Awakens together?! I thought you and Andy were literally going to explode, come in your pants, and scream like schoolgirls when the opening crawl started. It made me so happy to see you so happy, even though I acted annoyed. I’m pretty sure you know when I’m actually pissed, and when I’m just pretending. Half the fun is your reactions. _

 

_ Remember the first time we ate at that Himalayan place? And I ate most of your meal cause I was a dumbass and got mine too spicy but I was too proud to order something else. Seriously that poor toilet. I still feel guilty about that.  _

 

_ Remember when we bought this house, and you insisted on carrying me across the threshold? You’re such a romantic, it’s one of the many things I love about you. I’m sorry that I don’t…well, that I’m not as good at that stuff. But I hope you know how much I love you. Also, I think the sex we had in the empty living room was actually in my top 10. Incredible, who knew you were into rolling around and carpet burn so much. _

 

_ Remember that time your mom and I planned that surprise birthday party for you? I was so worried Charlotte would mess it up and tell you. You know that was one of the first times I really told her a secret. But she did so well—such a smooth operator! She definitely gets that from you. Your face was priceless though. Definitely one of my favorite memories, and I’m STILL laughing at the way you screamed like a girl. _

 

_ Remember before…Okay. I can’t go there right now. Let’s just leave it at all the happy stuff and call it a night. I love you. _

 

_                                                                                                                                                                      Patrick _

  
  
  


_                                                                                                                                                                             <garbled date> _

 

~~_ This is stupid. It’s fucking unfair. I shouldn’t have to say goodbye, we should get to grow old together. I shouldn’t have to worry if you’re going to fucking…if I’m going to get to see my grandson be born. I hate it all, I hate Alzheimer's and I hate Neal and I hate the way you take such good fucking care of me and I hate that I need you to do that. I TAKE CARE OF YOU and I…I just want to make music with you forever. I want to make pancakes and you spill syrup everywhere. I want to take you to dinner every night and smile at you stuffing your face with food. I want Charlotte to have both her parents. I want there to be a cure, why the fuck isn’t there a goddamnned cure? I want you, I want to keep you forever. Its not fair. Fuck. _ ~~

  
  
  


 

 

 _Dear Pete,_ _February 10_

 

_ Neal stopped me from tearing that page out. I feel bad I lost it, but he said I should keep it in here, so you know how I felt…that’s the point after all, right? I’m not okay with this, I’ll never be okay with this. But today I’m…better. I’m not going to let it get to me. _

 

_ You’re at work and I’m sitting on the couch wrapped up in a blanket with some tea. It’s peaceful and nice…Charlotte is going to come over in a bit and we’re going to watch the season finale of The Voice. I told her I wouldn’t watch it without her. I still can’t believe how lucky we got with her...I remember how terrified you were that we got a girl, but I always knew you’d be an amazing father no matter what. Plus, let’s just be honest, she’s had you wrapped around her fingers since the second you held her for the first time =) You and your big heart. Remember when she lost her first tooth? I don’t know who was more excited, you or her...I still can’t believe you dressed up as the tooth fairy just in case she woke up, but I guess when I really think about it, I totally can believe it. You and your odd fashion choices. Some of my favorite things to think about are you and her...the two of you, always scheming, always in the thick of it together. The two of you dancing in the living room to Beyonce when she went through that phase, her first birthday when she demolished her little birthday cake and you couldn’t stop laughing and let her paint frosting all over her face, you reading her Charlotte’s Web over and over and giving in to her not letting us kill a single spider. I never minded being the *actual* parent, because I loved the two of you together. I also think about your ridiculous fashion shows whenever I’m blue...you DEFINITELY found the ultimate partner-in-crime for all the things you wear. That picture of her in my Soul Punk cape is still one of my favorites.  _

 

_ Remember how into Clandestine you were….remember how you wanted that Bat design of yours to be EVERYWHERE? I’m not going to lie to you…I always thought it was a little ridiculous-looking. I definitely laughed at you in my head when you showed me you got it tattooed right above your damn dick. But I’d be lying if I told you when you showed me, I wasn’t hoping your pants didn’t miraculously fall down ;) Oh man....so many years of shenanigans and having a silent crush on you and doing ridiculous things. We were some crazy kids, you know that? I still can’t believe my mom let me go with you, but I suppose she must have been onto something. You DID turn out to be the love of my life, after all. I’ve always been so impressed with how entrepreneurial you are, how you’re always doing something, trying something new, making something. You’re amazing. _

 

_ I love you so much, Pete. We’ve had the best life, and I’m thankful beyond words for every single second. No matter how it ends...it’s been the perfect ride. _

 

_                                                                                                                                                                              Patrick _

  
  
  
  


 

 _Pete,_ _July 2_

 

_ It’s our anniversary today…and it was perfect. I was kinda worried you’d want to go all-out and...while I love that about you I really didn’t want to be responsible for you interrupting O’Hare’s flight patterns because you released a thousand doves or something.  _

 

_ Remember our wedding? I’m sorry I didn’t let you wear a dress (not really?) but damn you looked so good in that tux. Typical that you wanted me to wear the white one, and seriously I’m already pale enough...but God you were gorgeous. I remember people kept asking me days before and even right before I went down the aisle to you if I was nervous and...I wasn’t. You never made me nervous, you always made me feel SAFE...so why would I be nervous to walk twenty feet to you and know I’d get to be safe and loved for the rest of my life? But God was it satisfying to watch you try to not cry when I got up to you...I’ve never been so grateful to not be a crier. Haha, I was so horny, too, I remember...I was such an idiot for that whole “abstinence the week before” crap. Plus you didn’t make it easy. _

 

_ I think one of my favorite memories of our wedding was all of us out dancing like total idiots--Joe and Marie and Andy and Gerard and Lindsey and Brendon and Sarah. I remember my heart just felt like it was going to explode watching you dance and be so happy and then you kept coming back to me...I think that’s when it really hit me you were MINE. I know it’s kinda a dumb place for such a monumental realization but...It was incredible.  _

 

_ And uh...yeah. Post-wedding sex. God I swear sometimes I think I’m still 25 the things my brain wants to still do with you and to you. It’s funny, you were always the one who was sleeping around and I was just so shy and so into music...but I swear you like...sexually awakened me or something. I had no idea it could be as amazing as it is with you. I remember being in like high school and I...I don’t think I ever saw myself getting married? But it was always really hazy… featureless girl that I imagined just because I thought it wasn’t ever going to happen. But with you, it was so STRONG _ .  _ The feeling of wanting you, of you being mine. I wish I could go back to 14-year-old me and tell him that he’s going to marry this crazy hot guy and that it’s all going to be okay. More than okay, really...that it’s going to be amazing.  _

 

_ Happy anniversary, husband. I love you forever. _

_                                                                                                                                                                        Patrick _   
  
  
  
  
  


_Dear Pete,_ _October 22_

 

_ You’re finally asleep next to me and...fuck this is hard. I...I forgot who you were today and I think I maybe want to lose my mind so I can forget the look on your face. I’m so sorry, Pete. I can hear Neal telling me that I didn’t do this, and I can hear you telling me that it isn’t my fault, but I’m so sorry anyways. I’m sorry that I’m going to hurt you and that there isn’t a single thing I can do to stop it.  _

 

_ I wish sometimes that you’d let me just go away, live in a home or something. I know...I’d kill you if our places were reversed and you wanted me to put you in an old-person cubicle farm. But I just wish I could save you from seeing this all, from watching me melt away and forget you. I hope...I hope that our life together was worth...this. It was for me. You’re all I ever could have wanted a million times over. I wish we could be eighty-year olds sitting on our porch yelling at kids to get off our grass and complaining about our old bones in Chicago winters. I wish we got to be those cool Grandpas for Landon who take him to Disneyland and give him candy before bedtime (okay, that’s more you than me, but still) and dress him up for Star Wars Premieres. I wish...I wish we lived till we were a hundred and then both died in our sleep next to each other. _

 

_ Pete, I’ve been holding off saying this...but I guess I feel like I need to say it now. I want you to be okay, when I’m gone. I know I’ve already yammered about you not hiding yourself away, but I want you to know something. You are ALLOWED to be happy, to move on, to enjoy life, after I’m gone. I want you to know that, I want you to see these words and feel it in your bones. I don’t want you to be sad, it won’t dishonor my memory or any such crap if you smile and laugh. And as much as the possessive part of me hates the idea, I really mean this--if anyone catches your eye, I want you to go for it. It breaks my heart to think of you being alone because I know you and I know how much love you have in your heart. You have been the most incredible husband--always making me feel like I won the lotto of love. Even if nobody catches your eye and you just find someone to...I don’t know, be your old-person companion...I want you to have that, please. For me. I don’t want you to be alone. _

 

_ You’re asleep all twisted against me--I swear you’re an octopus trapped in a human’s body, even after all these years. I love you so much...I’ve never been good with words, you know that. I wish I could borrow your word-brain and spin you some beautiful metaphor about our love being grapes and vineyards on Mars with opalescent waves of love-oceans feeding it or something like that. God knows you could take that and make it into the best love song in the world...but I just love you. I love everything about you, every ridiculous thing and every iteration of you through all the years--your pink hair, your “emo bangs,” your eyeliner and your girl pants. That ridiculous denim jacket with the patches and the wool lining that was WAY too hot for L.A. but you wore it anyways, that kilt you wore for the Victoria’s Secret show and those ridiculous animal suits you made us all wear for that one photo shoot. I love everything about you, forever...and even if I don’t remember it soon, I want you to know that.  _

 

_ Patrick _

  
  
  


_Peter,_ _[garbled date]_

 

_ I love you. And I love our grandson Layton. Did you know Charlotte named him after me? His middle name is Patrick. I think he looks like you.  _

 

_                                                                                                                                                                      Patrick _

  
  


_Pete,_ _Feb 14, 2013_

_ Umm...you’re stupid. You were arguing with me today over the key for “The Phoenix.” I told you it's gonna be in the Key of E and you kept yammering on about the verses being in a minor key. That’s dumb. I still love you though...even if you are silly sometimes. You just need to admit I’m the musical genius of the family and that you’re the hot one.  _

 

_                                                                                                                                                                          Trick _

  
  
  
  
  


The final entry was dated four days before the last day Patrick remembered who his husband was. Pete was pretty sure he’d have that day etched into his memory forever, but he couldn’t help the swell of heartbreak and hope that tumbled through him as his fingers gently caressed the words scrawled onto the page. They were dark, like Patrick had pressed the pen hard to the paper in an effort to make them  _ stay _ ...but had ultimately lost the battle. He glanced over at his phone as he traced the letters, thinking idly that Patrick would tease him mercilessly for thinking of getting another tattoo at his age, but he wanted these words to go with him forever. He wanted to take them to his grave so when he found Patrick in the next life or in heaven or hell or wherever he was...he could point to his skin and say  _ I believed you...I believed you so much I made your words part of my flesh, my body...just like you always have been. _  Shrugging, he opened up a blank text message and sent a “wave” emoji to Daniel, his old tattoo artist, his mind drifting back over the hundreds of letters in-between the covers of the battered composition notebook and whispered thanks to Patrick for finding the courage to write them. His phone lit up with Daniel asking what was up and he opened it, flicking over to the messages and taking a photo of the page. 

 

<< _ I want a tattoo of this>> _

 

The response was quick, to the point, and he didn’t ask questions Pete wasn’t ready to answer. One of the things he loved about his art style and his personality.

 

< _ done. Friday, 2pm?> _

 

He replied with a thumbs up and set his phone back down, eyes roaming over the page again as he sighed, trying to not let the melancholy take over. Patrick had said over and over in all the letters that it had been the ride of his life...that he wouldn’t have changed a thing. He struggled to feel the same peace, wondering if he’d ever feel whole again or if this yawning sinkhole where his heart used to be would be his companion forever. 

 

Laying down on his side of the bed, he opened his music library and put the “I love you” song Patrick had left for him on the CD on repeat. His voice floated out over the tinny-sounding speakers of his phone and Pete sighed as he propped the journal on Patrick’s pillow, eyes roaming over the page and imagined Patrick was smiling at him from behind the battered pages. That perfect rose-petal lips were whispering the words, sea-blue eyes were dancing with love and humor as fingers calloused with years of playing the guitar twined with his own. Fleetingly, he wished for something like in the movies, for a ghostly, washed-out Patrick to appear for a second and blow him a kiss, or maybe a single rose could magically appear on his pillow. But the Patrick in his mind’s eye shook his head with a smirk and he knew what he would say...and he knew the truth. Patrick wouldn't appear to him like the ghost of Obi-Wan Kenobi, but that was okay, because he had his husband in his head and in his heart  _ forever _ . 

 

He could see him laying next to him on the bed, mouth open and drooling just a bit with his laptop on his stomach and his huge headphones half-falling off as whatever he was working on blared away. He could see him panting and shuddering after making love, gasping that they were too old for shenanigans like that. He could see him rubbing Charlotte’s back as he tried to get her to fall asleep when she had been teething, tears in his eyes as she screamed in pain. He could see him glaring at him for waking him up before noon for something as inconsequential as  _ brunch _ and could feel the hard jab of his elbow as he tried to burrow back into the pillows. He could imagine him hunched over the notebook as he wrote his heart onto the pages so that Pete would have a little piece of him forever, so that he wouldn’t be alone. 

 

Wiping a stray tear from his cheek, he caressed the words and just breathed.

  
  


_ I LOVE YOU FOREVER PETE WENTZ. _

_ YOUR HUSBAND, PATRICK STUMPH _

 

 

 

 

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that's all for now, folks!!! As I've said many times but you all deserve to hear again, THANK YOU for coming along on this roller-coaster of heartbreak with me. I'm truly grateful you let me break your hearts over and over, and I'm sorry for the long wait for the end of this!!! But now we're here...and all I can say is thank you, I love all of you, and you're the best!!! I've met so many amazing people and made some incredible friends from this story, and I think that is the best gift you can ever be given.
> 
> I may have said something about it before, but I started this story just after my marriage ended. Without getting too sappy, this was kinda my way of saying goodbye to the future I thought I had with my spouse...obviously I wasn't wishing Alzheimer's on either of us, but that feeling of knowing you have someone who will be there for you through thick and thin, no matter what, the assurance of unconditional love...this story was me saying goodbye to that. There are a lot of little details scattered through it that are significant to me (for example, July 2, the date of Patrick's anniversary letter was my wedding anniversary) and writing each of them helped me, in some strange way, to say goodbye. So thanks for coming on my strange journey of healing and closure...and I wish the very best to all of you. 
> 
> Until next time, friends!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> OTP Prompt: "Person A is diagnosed with a terminal illness where their mind and body will deteriorate quickly. Person B insists on caring for them until it’s their time."
> 
> Prompt Credit: http://otp-lifestyle.tumblr.com/post/154686765901/otp-idea-677
> 
> Title from "Take Over The Break's Over" from Infinity on High.


End file.
